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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/27115118">Lachesis</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodofthepen/pseuds/bloodofthepen'>bloodofthepen</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Shall We Date?: Obey Me!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>As it should be, Asexual Character, Asexuality Spectrum, I play a bit fast and loose with canon but... it's free real estate, Lesson 20 (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!) Spoilers, Nonbinary Character, Other, POV Second Person, Reader-Insert freeform, Slow Burn, brazen references to Sylvia Plath, so much tea and so many pastries, spoilers all the way through lesson 20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-10-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 17:27:39</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>47,528</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/27115118</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bloodofthepen/pseuds/bloodofthepen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Who is the arbiter of your Fate? </p><p>You've never been one to make firm decisions; you would much rather just go where everyone else takes you, wherever destiny drifts, and you've been getting by in the Devildom this way since you arrived. But, as the thread grows tighter and tighter, circumstances bring you closer to Lord Diavolo's steward.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Barbatos (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)/Reader, Barbatos/Main Character (Shall We Date?: Obey Me!)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>34</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>118</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Part I: The Spinner</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Though this tale is told from the second person, the central character does have their own life and history, and they are a named character. I've been working on this since about July, and I'm very excited to begin presenting it. The next part won't be up right away, I'm afraid, as I'm not finished drafting part three just yet, but I wanted to get at least a little more content out here for my fellow undatable-lovers. </p><p>My deepest, heartfelt thanks to Tan, Hylla, and Pibbs, who have been instrumental with their encouragement, patience, excitement, and boundless interest, as well as headcanons and collective discussion that shaped several scenes in this piece. Now, without further ado....</p><p> <b>Lachesis: in ancient Greek religion, the second of the three Fates, Disposer of Lots, the measurer of thread.</b></p>
    </blockquote><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>
  <b>Clotho - in ancient Greek religion, the first of the three Fates, who spins the thread of life<b></b></b>
</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You suspect there are things about the Devildom that are purposefully hidden from you. </p><p>It starts small. You’re warned at the beginning that other demons might eat you without thinking twice, but it’s never explained why. However, you can surmise for yourself that, beyond the possibility of humans tasting quite delicious, this makes perfect sense: as an exchange student—practically a diplomat, a representative of Humanity—you’re inevitably a prime political target for any dissenting parties among the Devildom’s subjects. </p><p>And there <em> must </em> be dissent, though you’ve never seen evidence of it. Lord Diavolo is handling a delicate political agenda; pushing for <em> peace </em> among the three realms implies the existence of <em> discord</em>. You’re not an idiot; this isn’t the first time you’ve studied in a college or heard of the politics of kings and warring realms, though the time for the former has, largely, long since passed in your world.</p><p>At first, you didn't pay much attention, but the signs only grew and multiplied. Being allowed to attend every Student Council Meeting, before suddenly being barred from entry one Monday afternoon and being told not to worry—that the trivial politics on the agenda wouldn’t have interested you anyway—was the first time you really noticed. It happened at least once a month after that, afternoons ending with you bundled away to RAD’s library to finish homework or pawned off on Solomon and a handful of Little D’s to practice resisting demonic influence. On rare occasions, Barbatos would be waiting outside the doors to whisk you away for tea instead. </p><p>You try your luck one such day to find out more. </p><p>“This is the fourth time,” you say, before reaching for your cup. </p><p>“Yes,” the butler agrees amicably, the faintest trace of a smile on his mouth that never seems to change. He looks constantly <em> serene</em>, with a knowing glint in his eye that inspires frustration more often than not.</p><p>“I understand it’s political,” you try again, taking a sip. The tea is really remarkable; it always is when Barbatos brews it. You wonder if the ingredients are grown in the Devildom or if they have to be imported from the Human Realm. </p><p>He takes a sip, too. “Indeed.” One step beyond frustrating is <em>infuriating</em>. </p><p>Very well; time to try a different approach. Straightforward it is. “Is there something that they just… don’t want me to hear?”</p><p>Barbatos’ cup goes back in its saucer without a sound. “There is much business in the Devildom that does not concern humans, even those who are my lord’s guests.” </p><p>“True enough…” Your teeth catch the inside of your cheek. “But I feel like I hear a fair amount of such business in the other meetings. There are many things on the agenda that don’t affect me directly which I get to hear anyw—”</p><p>The words die in your throat when he looks at you with too-clever eyes, green like the sea, and twice as deep; they just draw you down, down, into spiral staircases, secrets of centuries—“Do you suppose,” he says, quietly, in the perfectly even tone that matches his perfectly amiable expression, “that if it were so important, I’d be here, with you, having tea?”</p><p>It is very difficult to argue that point. Lord Diavolo has the demon steward accompany him <em> everywhere</em>. “I… suppose not.” </p><p>Barbatos nods, and takes up his cup again, releasing you from whatever stupor had held you in place. It wasn’t demonic power; you knew that, by now. A demon’s charm hasn’t yet worked on you, and you’d learned to recognize the signs of temptation…</p><p>“May I pour you another?”</p><p>Indeed, your cup was empty. “Please.”</p><p>He pours gracefully, a steady stream of amber tea catching the hazy light, a translucent shadow cast over the wrought-iron table in the middle of one of RAD’s courtyards. “You must be enjoying the blend, to have finished so quickly,” he observes.</p><p>“I am, very much,” you concede. The aroma is heavy and brisk, not unlike chai, but distinctly more floral. “Are the plants grown here?”</p><p>“Many of them are, yes, though the tea leaves themselves often come from the Human Realm because soil and weather conditions are difficult to imitate here in the Devildom.” He retakes his seat with gracefully conservative movements and lifts his own cup. “The most prominent flavor in this blend is nightthyme, akin to the thyme species in your world but native to this one.” </p><p>"And what are the properties of <em> nightthyme?"  </em>That brings a smile to your face as you try not to laugh.  </p><p>"In flavor or medicine?" </p><p>You're surprised. Almost no one talks about medicinal properties of herbs anymore—at least, no one you converse with back home. "Both."</p><p>The smallest flash of genuine, proper enjoyment, gone so fast from his face that you could have imagined it, if not for the energy that overtakes his voice. "The demonic flavor profile of nightthyme is stygian, slightly sweet, with floral properties not seen in your world's varieties, and mildly spicy."</p><p>"<em>Demonic </em> flavor profile?" you ask before he can continue.</p><p>"Yes; it is slightly different from human cusine's profile and from celestial cuisine." He tucks a folded hand beneath his chin. "Our sense of taste is slightly different from yours—in addition to salty, spicy, bitter, sweet, sour, and umami, we have another set of descriptors: bright and stygian. For example, a human soul possesses a coveted bright flavor, and the more resolute the soul, the brighter and more delectable it is." Lecture apparently concluded, Barbatos takes up his tea again. </p><p>"You know, this doesn't convince me that my tasks <em> aren't </em> meant to make me more… delectable."</p><p>His cup stops halfway to his lips. "Has anyone claimed otherwise?" </p><p>Your heart freezes in your chest at the grave severity of his tone. "I—"</p><p>But then, his eyes sparkle with amusement. "The tasks are foremost meant to protect you from demonic influence, and strengthen your soul."</p><p>Relief. Who knew the prince's steward had a sense of humor, albeit dry?</p><p>He delicately takes another sip of tea. "Of course, it <em> does </em> make you extraordinarily appetizing."</p><p>You almost lose your mouthful of tea, but, refusing to splutter into such fine porcelain, swallow hard and suffer a wet, hacking cough into your elbow, eyes watering. </p><p>Barbatos continues like he hasn't noticed. "Medicinally, the herb is used for boosting energy, clearing the mind, and <em> easing coughs</em>."</p><p>Ah, so Lord Diavolo's butler is secretly a <em> bastard</em>. You get yourself together just enough to reply, but—</p><p>"You have time for one more cup before we rejoin the others."</p><p>Your brow furrows. "Did one of them text you?" Your D.D.D. has been silent since the meeting began. </p><p>"No." Barbatos rises and refills your cup first, his second. </p><p>"Then how do you know?" The meetings have no real, set time limit; often they're shorter than an hour, but sometimes they run over. Usually when you're not allowed in, it's the latter, but you don’t even know what time it is right now. </p><p>He graces you again with that serene smile, eyes faintly amused. "It is my duty." </p><p>By the time you finish your next cup, you don’t even realize you forgot to ask about the subject of the meeting again. </p>
<hr/><p>Each time, Barbatos brings a different blend of tea, every one carefully chosen for its Devildom-grown ingredients. It takes three such visits while Council meetings go on without you before you realize that he isn’t just being hospitable; he has discovered a way to keep you focused on a personal interest to prevent <em> unwelcome questions</em>. </p><p>Well, <em> fine</em>. Maybe it really is none of your business, and you like his company, and you love hearing about the herbs native to the Devildom. Besides, every blend of tea Barbatos chooses is divi—er—maybe divine isn’t the right word. <em> Delightful.</em> </p><p>Today, the courtyard table is set, in addition to the usual porcelain, with a beautiful, glass dish accented with silver filigree. Inside, there’s a viscous, golden liquid. “Honey?” you ask.</p><p>Barbatos nods, pouring your tea; it’s very dark, with a purplish hue as the hazy light of the Devildom sky shines through it. “From Infernal Bees.” </p><p>That piques your curiosity even further. “What do they look like?”</p><p>“Perhaps you can convince Mammon to accompany you to the royal apiary to see for yourself.” The placid smile is present on his face as he removes the pointed lid of the honey pot. “He is very easily motivated.”</p><p>His tone is perfectly even, but somehow the way he lingers on the syllables makes it sound as though he is suggesting you appeal to Mammon’s greed and—what, <em> steal </em>some?</p><p>“This honey is the best in the realm, destined only for royal tables.” The demon’s eyes crinkle at the edges like he’s sharing a secret.  </p><p>Holy hell, he <em> is </em> telling you to tempt Mammon into a visit. “I’m sure Satan would be a better choice to share the history of the bees with me while there, wouldn’t he?” you say, carefully. </p><p>“Perhaps.” The silver spoon between Barbatos’ gloved fingers is so pure it shines nearly white. “This tea is best served with honey; first taste the blend as it is now, and I will add a teaspoon after.” </p><p>You follow his instruction, taking note of the tea’s heavy, dark scent, not unlike a strong blackcurrant blend, and take the first sip. It’s savory, first, then earthy, with a slightly spicy flavor not unlike the blackcurrant you detected in its scent, and finishes bitterly on the tongue. </p><p>Overall, no, not particularly pleasant, but certainly drinkable, perhaps with a cake or similarly sweet food. </p><p>He’s looking at you, expectant. </p><p>“Definitely heavy; savory and spicy, a bit bitter, but I wouldn't call it unpleasant.” You replace your cup in its saucer gently, and Barbatos nods, dipping the gleaming spoon into the honey dish. </p><p>“Watch,” he instructs, and holds the laden spoon just above your cup, so that the hot coils of steam curl around it. “Infernal Honey has several interesting properties.” </p><p>For a moment, nothing happens, but, slowly, from the bottom of the spoon, tendrils of scarlet seep and curl through gold. They spread and writhe and bloom until the whole of the honey becomes a deep, glittering ruby, and Barbatos dips the spoon beneath the surface of your tea, stirring briskly without ever catching the sides of the porcelain in a single clink. </p><p>“It’s beautiful,” you say, not taking your eyes off the way the spoon cuts the surface of the tea. “It reacts with heat?”</p><p>“Yes.” He removes the spoon and dries it on a cloth napkin before serving himself the same way, letting you watch the magic of the honey again as it catches the light, as the scarlet veins bloom, as it finally seems to glow crimson before it is added to the cup. “Heat activates the latent magical properties of the honey.”</p><p>Ah, <em> literally </em> magic. </p><p>“Once the honey is active, it takes on the ability to cleanse negative magical energies, such as curses or hexes, or to realign chaotic energy.” When he finishes stirring the honey into his cup, he dries the silver spoon and sets it aside on a saucer. “It is very bracing for entities who possess a great deal of magic.” </p><p>“Like you?”</p><p>He continues smiling that serene little smile. “Like most demons and angels. And humans like Solomon.” Barbatos lifts his cup, and waits for you to drink first. </p><p>You oblige. Immediately, the change is apparent; the savory flavor is laced through with a bright sweetness, complemented by the spicy, blackcurrant-like notes you’d tasted before. There’s no trace of bitterness at all, only an earthy, aromatic finish that fills your mouth and nose with a breath of the most floral honey you’ve ever tasted, and just a hint of smoke, faint, like someone has blown out a candle in another room. It’s so much more refreshing than you thought such a dark flavor could be. </p><p>“It’s <em> amazing</em>,” you say before you dive right back in for more. </p><p>Barbatos chuckles, a deep, bubbling sort of laugh that sticks in his throat just a little, as though he had surprised himself with the sound, and you snap your head up to look. You’ve never heard him do <em> that </em> before. But he just sips his tea, eyes calmly closed, like he hasn’t turned your day completely upside-down. </p>
<hr/><p>It’s so difficult to learn anything at all about Barbatos, compared to nearly everyone else you interact with on a regular basis at RAD, demon and angel alike. Even Solomon, though he reveals next to nothing about his power nor his interest in being part of the exchange program, will converse now and then about life in Purgatory Hall or the things he misses from the human world. Yet, the more you visit with Diavolo’s faithful steward, the more curious you become, and information finally arrives from a most unexpected source: your Devildom history textbook. At last, you have a concrete question to ask. </p><p>But by now, you know that, if you want to get an answer from Barbatos which he doesn’t want to give, you can’t ask your question directly, nor can you skirt around and hint, trying politely to tease information out a little at a time. He’s too good at misdirection, adept at courtly intrigue, brilliant at navigating convoluted manners, and fluent in double-speak. No, the usual tactics won’t work, but once you understand the game, you’re able to formulate a strategy.</p><p>The trick is to find a way to make a statement that he can’t ignore, can’t deny, without giving you information no matter how he chooses to handle what you’ve presented. </p><p>“Duke Barbatos.”</p><p>You wait for the other shoe to drop as the steady stream of tea into your cup doesn’t falter, doesn’t stop until it’s full. The steward’s expression does not change. His hands don’t shake. He merely stands up straight, straighter than an iron rod, and, after a pause about two seconds longer than his usual delay when formulating an answer to an unexpected question, says: “Why do you call me that?”</p><p>Your hands are folded carefully in your lap. “Because it’s your title.” If you were to phrase it as a question, you know he’d just turn the question back on you—<em>is it? </em>—and things would go nowhere. </p><p>Barbatos moves to the other side of the table and pours his own cup. “I see you’ve been paying attention in Devildom History.”</p><p>You want to give a satisfied, victorious wiggle, but you’d prefer not to put him off. “Yes… I was surprised when I came across your name among the rulers of the Devildom, but I suppose I shouldn’t have been.” </p><p>His head tilts very slightly, a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it gesture. He’s interested. “Indeed?” He takes his seat on the other side of the table. </p><p>“You’re involved in <em> everything </em> that goes on,” you say, and take a sip of your tea. It’s darjeeling, from the human world—a welcome taste of home. “What I don’t understand is why you don’t go by your title.” </p><p>Barbatos holds both cup and saucer neatly over his lap. “You must have noticed that <em> none </em> of the lords go by their titles.” </p><p>You blink. “Well… yes.” You suppose you had noticed that, though you always assumed it was because you’re largely not subject to the same political and social rules as the lesser demons of the Devildom, and because you’re <em> living </em> with the others. It would be strange to constantly address Mammon, for example, as <em> Duke </em> Mammon. </p><p>“My Lord is a great reformer. He has instituted a free, public education for all demons, committees for public works that improve the lives of lesser demons, and, of course, the ruling Council.” He sips his tea. “With all of this political revolution comes social change. Lord Diavolo’s ultimate goal is unity, and peace between the three realms. It is difficult to make demons feel unified when the old, feudal structures remain in place; therefore, we have stopped using our formal titles. Even my Lord is seldom addressed as <em> Prince</em>.” </p><p>"And never as <em> your highness</em>," you realize. Your fingers idly trace the dark, painted strands of ivy that surround your cup. “But all of you still hold the same weight and responsibility as before.”</p><p>“Indeed.”</p><p>“So why do you, a duke, act as steward and butler to Lord Diavolo?” </p><p>Barbatos glances sidelong over his tea. “We all serve my Lord in one way or another.” </p><p>You suspect that's by choice. But aren't most things? Slowly, you nod. “Even me, I suppose.”</p><p>His brows arch in undisguised surprise. “How so?”</p><p>“I’m participating in the exchange program,” you say, simply. It’s very clear to you, and isn’t as bothersome a thought as it might be for someone like Luke, or perhaps Solomon. After all, you’re getting far more than you could have ever asked out of this arrangement: free higher education, and perhaps more importantly, a look into worlds beyond the one you know. “My role is to foster the first good relations between demons and humans, to show that peace is achievable.” Duty is as familiar to you as the sun. Strange that one and not the other should be so omnipresent. </p><p>Barbatos settles back in his chair, his usual expression teetering on outright pleased. “Very perceptive, Ambrose.” The warm use of your name is like a compliment in itself. </p><p>“Thank you.” You finish the last sip of tea in an attempt to distract yourself from the sudden burst of pride in your chest. </p><p>The butler doesn’t even have to ask; he rises immediately as you set your cup aside and moves around the table to fetch the pot and pour you some more. “It seems you’re not at all uncomfortable with the realization,” he observes.</p><p>“I have no reason to be.” The tea makes a soft, soothing sound as it fills the porcelain, not unlike a small fountain. You smile, a little wryly. “There’s no shame in playing a role once it’s been given.” And far worse causes with which to align yourself. </p><p>“I wonder,” says Barbatos, cradling the teapot with a curious twinkle in his eyes, “what you’ll do with yours.”</p><p>Those eyes go down and down and down forever but you draw yourself back from the edge long enough to admit, “I plan to serve to the best of my ability.” </p><p>He smiles, broadly, properly, eyes creased with the warmth of it. “Your best is all anyone can ask.”</p><p>You smile in return. "And all that I can offer." </p>
<hr/><p>About a week later, there’s a new text on your DDD.</p><p>
  <em><strong> Barbatos:</strong> My Lord wishes me to extend an invitation for you to join us for Sunday tea at the palace. </em>
</p><p>You quash the instinct to ask “just me?” You’ve been to tea at the Demon Lord’s Castle before, usually with Lucifer, to update the three on how you’re faring with the exchange program. Always, you keep to yourself what you’ve found in the attic, and you’ve given up entirely on trying to get information about the council meetings you’re barred from attending. If the invitation isn’t coming through one of the brothers—indeed, you double-check, and you’re the only recipient of the message—it must be for <em> you </em> alone.</p><p>You are very curious about what Lord Diavolo wants to discuss, and tea with Barbatos is always a treat, regardless of how those afternoons may have begun. </p><p>
  <em><strong> You:</strong> I’m delighted to accept. </em>
</p><p>You’ll have to see about getting an escort. While you have four pacts, and you’ve never been treated outright poorly by anyone you’ve met so far… the lingering sense of <em> discomfort </em> still follows you through the Devildom’s seemingly peaceful streets, the idea that there’s something you still don’t know shadowing each step.</p><p>
  <em><strong> Barbatos:</strong> We will be just as delighted to entertain you.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong> Barbatos:</strong> I will fetch you from the House of Lamentation at 3:30pm exactly on Sunday.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong> Barbatos:</strong> There is no need to arrange another escort. You will be returned safely to the House after tea.  </em>
</p><p>Oh. Well… that’s one less thing to worry about. You’ll just have to inform Lucifer of your plans later. </p><p>
  <em><strong> You:</strong> Thank you! I’m looking forward to it! </em>
</p><p>You scroll through the stickers until you find a chibi crow-demon drinking cheerfully from a teacup curled in its talons, and send it. </p><p>He replies with a happy sticker and you feel somehow triumphant. </p>
<hr/><p>When Barbatos said <em> exactly </em> 3:30 in the afternoon, he had meant it <em> precisely</em>. One moment you were looking at Asmo’s newest Devilgram post (the demon in question making radiant doe-eyes at the camera, somehow so much more beautiful than the iridescent irises visible just over his shoulder), perched on a high-backed chair in the foyer as the clock read 3:29, and the next, there were three knocks on the front door. </p><p><em> Inhuman </em> timeliness. </p><p>You answer right away, opening the door to see the steward standing primly on the other side. “Good afternoon, Barbatos.”</p><p>“Good afternoon.” He offers his usual serene smile. “Are you ready?”</p><p>You tuck your DDD into the pocket of your coat. “Yes.” </p><p>He performs a quarter-turn and poffers an arm, bent at the elbow; you almost fall down the first step as the door closes heavily behind you. “Oh—” For an instant, you’re panicking, trying to decide whether you’re supposed to link your arm with his or just rest yours atop—but, no, wait, the second one doesn’t make sense: you’re not dancing, and even if this is the twenty-first century and not the eighteenth, you—”thank you.” Lightly, you link your arm with his and rest your hand atop his wrist.</p><p>Barbatos wastes no time in setting off at a brisk pace, but glances at you from the corner of his eye, and you <em> feel </em> his amusement. “I see you’re not accustomed to a proper escort.”</p><p>“Well,” you say, trying to shove aside your embarrassment and succeeding only in making your cheeks heat further, “humans don’t do this anymore.” </p><p>“I would have expected the other lords to offer you the courtesy.” Though the words, if you turn them over carefully, seem disapproving, his voice is perfectly measured. </p><p>You suppose the brothers must not be as…<em> steeped </em> in tradition as Barbatos seems. Yes. Yes that was a pun, and you’re only sorry because this means you have to keep the amused smirk off your face. </p><p>“Beelzebub and Mammon will hold my hand on crowded streets, and Asmodeus tries to hold my hand <em> anywhere</em>.” You consider further. “I can see Lucifer offering his arm, but he hasn’t given me any particularly formal escorts; he’s usually too busy to accompany me.” </p><p>“And you already have the rest of his brothers vying for your attention.” Barbatos tilts his head, fixes you under his verdant gaze, and you have to look away. “Lucifer won’t deprive them.”</p><p>“I do seem to be a bit of a novelty.” </p><p>“A mere ‘novelty’ would not capture their attentions so completely.” He says it so matter-of-factly that you’re nearly inclined to believe his observation. “They are more familiar with humans than most in the Devildom.” </p><p>You wrinkle your brow. “Perhaps, but they’ve never had one <em> living </em>with them before, if I’m not mistaken.”</p><p>“Indeed,” he hums, and you have no reply to that.  </p><p>The streets seem to breeze by quickly with the demon's efficient strides and you have to focus to maintain your step. When Barbatos speaks again, it is on a boulevard you recognize with its twisted, iron fence and the crooked, willow-like trees that line the path. “We will arrive fifteen-and-a-half minutes before our meeting. Would you like to see the castle’s collection of tea while I prepare the meal?”</p><p>“<em>Yes!”</em> Your heart does a stuttering little jig, and the grin that overtakes your features could probably power every lightbulb at RAD. “Yes, please!”</p><p>Barbatos chuckles. “Very well, then.” </p>
<hr/><p>You pass through the room in which you’d taken tea with Diavolo and Lucifer before to reach another, slightly smaller room, completely different from the pseudo-Victorian atmosphere of the one prior. This room is decorated in smooth, grey stone and highly polished wooden surfaces, feeling like a hybrid between medieval English castle architecture and the minka of Japan, with gracefully hewn wooden cross-beams and a subtly designed mosaic floor. There’s ample counter-space and cabinets lining the walls, an island on the far end between the counters, and in the center of the room, an irori—a hearth set into the floor, filled with fine sand and ashes. </p><p>“Is this the tea room?” you ask, hardly daring to raise your voice in the gentle silence.</p><p>Barbatos seems to smile, though his expression doesn’t change at all. There’s only a softness to his eyes that you hadn’t seen a moment ago. “Yes.” </p><p>“It’s <em> beautiful</em>.” </p><p>“Thank you.” He leads you inside, to the intricately carved doors of the cabinets and cupboards, each one depicting a different flowering plant in sunken relief. “Lord Diavolo allowed me to have it built to my own design.” </p><p>“Do you perform tea ceremonies?” Your eyes are drawn to one free-standing cabinet in particular, its surface covered in the scrolling image of a jasmine vine. Not only are the leaves portrayed with delicate veins, and the flowers themselves with lifelike precision, petals tapering to soft points, but there are buds represented as well, like variegated pearls. </p><p>“On occasion.” Barbatos draws a ring of keys from his pocket and inserts one into a lock you hadn’t noticed before—it blends in so perfectly with the curling stems, buried in the crook between leaf and flower. “They are not the same as the ones in the human realm.”</p><p>You open your mouth to ask about the differences, but when the cabinet swings open, you don’t make a sound. </p><p>It’s filled from floor-to-ceiling with boxes and chests, themselves <em> all filled with tea</em>. There must be fifty of them in this cabinet alone, each one detailed with inlaid mosaics, delicately painted scenes, carved reliefs, enamelling—</p><p>“There are more.” </p><p>“There’s <em> more?”</em></p><p>Barbatos laughs outright, all soft, ringing mirth, and you think you might just expire. “Every cabinet contains tea; the cupboards are for teaware.” </p><p>No, you’re not <em> going to </em> expire, you’ve obviously <em> already </em> expired. Heaven is a tea room in the Devil’s castle; who knew?</p><p>“May I—” The words stick in your throat. You don’t know where to start, what to ask— “May I see?”</p><p>“You may explore as much as you like while I prepare.” He moves to the next cabinet, this one elegantly carved in the image of twining roses, and slips another key between two petals to unlock it. His tone shifts from warm to measured and serious. “But do not touch any of the teas themselves.”</p><p>You tilt your head, catching his verdant eyes. “Why not?” It’s not as though you had planned to go pawing through them, but…</p><p>“There are some plants here that can be harmful to humans.” He holds your gaze firmly for just a moment, as though to punctuate the statement before moving on to the third cabinet, which illustrates a flower you don’t recognize. The blossoms stand tall in a trifold, reminiscent of an iris, but there’s something strange about the way some of the petals taper into long threads, the way the stem seems to shred itself all the way to nothing but spidery tendrils… perhaps they’re thin, grasping roots, or a bizarre form of leaf. There’s plenty of room between each cabinet for the swing of the doors, but Barbatos does not set them open too widely. </p><p>“I understand.” Your eyes rove over the boxes of all shapes and sizes. “I won’t touch anything without asking you about it first.”</p><p>“Very good.” He gives you a sideways glance, mouth upturned in that little smile, like he’s constantly keeping a secret. “I wouldn’t want to cut our afternoon short because you’d suddenly ceased to feel your fingers.”</p><p>Your brows arch. “Is that a possibility, or are you teasing?”</p><p>Barbatos chuckles lightly. “I am teasing.” He strides over toward the counters and island, allowing you to try to choose which box you’d like to—</p><p>“But it could very well happen, if you’re not careful.” You lift your head just in time to see the smirk he casts over his shoulder, hands neatly folded behind his back, before bending down to one of the lower cupboards to produce a silver tray.</p><p>You smile. </p>
<hr/><p>There’s a box made of rigid silks, embroidered with a cottage scene, cradled carefully in your hands. Delicate crimson threads make the cabin’s walls, and cream silk details the doors and windows on a royal blue backdrop; a figure, depicted in rich, brown floss and dainty shades of saffron and peridot kneels in quiet repose. By now, you, too, have retired to a seated position before the open cabinets. Around the cottage and the relaxed figure is a sea of turquoise grasses. Carefully, your fingertips trace the silk, but don’t dare touch the fine embroidery, before you lift the lid.</p><p>
  <em> Bzzt, bzzt!  </em>
</p><p>You turn around to find Barbatos gazing dispassionately at his DDD while removing a tray of pastries from the oven built into the island that you hadn’t noticed earlier. Honestly, you weren’t surprised to notice that the demon was holding what must be a three-hundred-degree tray with nothing more than his thin gloves, but the sight is no less startling. </p><p>“My Lord has been called for an unexpected audience,” he says, replacing the phone in his coat and turning his full attention back to the tray. “He will be unable to join us for tea, but, if you would like to stay, he has informed me that I am still free to entertain you.” </p><p>For half a moment, you want to insist that it’s not necessary; you can come back another time, but the phrasing runs through your mind a second time. <em> Still free to entertain you</em>. Your chest tightens. <em> Still free</em>. Barbatos hasn’t been <em> instructed </em> to serve you tea; he was given the <em> choice</em>. </p><p>“If it’s no trouble, I’d be glad to stay and have tea with you, Barbatos,” you find yourself saying as you watch him continue to arrange little cakes on a platter as though you’d already said yes. </p><p>His eyes crinkle almost imperceptibly at the edges. “It is my pleasure.” The undoubtedly hot pan disappears somewhere at the head of the island and the sweets platter makes its way onto the gleaming, silver serving tray. “Tea will be ready in four minutes, thirty-seven seconds. I trust you recall where you may refresh yourself and where to be seated.” </p><p>“Yes, of course.” You take a longing glance into the box you’ve just opened—it appears to be full of jasmine pearls and white tea, sprinkled through with a long-leafed herb, perhaps rosemary—before rising to replace it in the cabinet. After all, if this oddly specific timeframe was anything like the “three-thirty exactly” Barbatos gave you this afternoon, he likely wasn’t exaggerating. </p><p>“You may leave the cabinets open,” he says when you start to put things back the way you’d found them. “I’ll be selecting a blend momentarily.”</p><p>Nodding, you excuse yourself to the washroom—just as elegant as every other corner of the palace you’ve seen—and clean your hands in a deep, porcelain sink with a golden spigot before returning to the Victorian-esque sitting room to take your seat at a high table by the bay window. The chairs are deceptively comfortable, lightly cushioned on the bottom and over the high back in what you suspect is some kind of leather. The drapes, like most of the upholstery, are burgundy, offset by the fine, cream lace draped over the table, matched by dark, wooden wainscoting and rosy wallpaper. Afternoon light filters through the window, a slightly warm, orange glow mingling with the greenish Devildom atmosphere, like a candle during a thunderstorm.</p><p>And then the silver tray with ivory handles finds itself situated on the table in front of you. </p><p>“I had considered allowing you to choose something that you had seen during your exploration,” Barbatos says as he gracefully, methodically moves a gorgeous glass teacup, matching saucer, napkin, plate, and fork to your place before setting his own, “but I think you’ll be pleased with my selection.” </p><p>“I’ve never been disappointed,” you assure, not that he needs it. </p><p>Still, he seems to stand a little straighter as he situates what looks like a plate of scones, a dish of cream, and two shallow bowls of fruit. “These are shortcakes.” He moves one to your plate, and sets a teaspoon in each little bowl. “If I may serve you my suggested plating?” </p><p>“Of course.” You can feel your cheeks starting to warm. No matter how many times you’ve had tea with Barbatos in service, you can’t seem to get over being served. It’s not that you’ve never been out to eat—you’ve even taken tea once or twice in little tea-rooms—but there’s something so strangely… <em> attentive </em> about each movement and question from the demon butler that you can’t help but feel it’s entirely different. Perhaps it’s that this is his <em> profession</em>, and that he devotes himself entirely to service, not just of meals, but of everything Lord Diavolo and his guests require. </p><p>“This is double cream, and Human Realm produce I’m sure you’re familiar with—strawberries and rhubarb.” He opens the pastry with a fork and smooths a dollop of cream on the bottom half, then piles it sparingly with the fruit and thinly sliced vegetable.</p><p>Your mouth is already watering when he replaces the top of the cake. </p><p>“I have paired it with a Devildom tea. The flavor will be… unusual for you, but I hope, no less pleasant.” He lifts a wrought iron teapot every bit as beautiful as any of the porcelain varieties you’ve seen to date: inlaid with gold, its spout shaped like the open maw of a serpent, complete with wickedly pointed fangs. “It is sometimes called <em> The Eighth Sin</em>.” As he pours, it catches the light filtering in through the window, the dark, nearly pitch-black liquid gleaming briefly aquamarine. </p><p>You raise your brows, the corner of your mouth flirting with a smile. “It’s that good?” </p><p>A sharp, surprised chuckle settles in Barbatos’ chest. “Are you familiar with the eighth Deadly Sin?”</p><p>You blink as he begins serving himself... you were under the impression that the name was a joke, that the <em> tea </em>was the sin. “I thought there were only seven.”</p><p>“Well, there are many more sins than the seven, I'm sure you are aware,” he hums, setting the heavy teapot aside. “The eighth Deadly Sin has gone in and out of doctrine in your world, in and out of power. It has no representation here, in the traditional sense.” </p><p>That catches your attention. “In the traditional sense?”</p><p>But he just smiles that little, placid smile. “Taste it.” </p><p>It won’t do any good to argue, so you raise your cup, admiring the way the painted glass gleams with its gold leaf and intricate, midnight blue design. “You’re sure I’m not committing a sin by drinking it?” you tease.</p><p>“Could it be worse than making pacts with the Demon Lords themselves?” </p><p>Ah. “Touché,” you mutter, gazing into the dark, undisturbed surface as it laps gently at the glass. And then, you sip.</p><p>It tastes like sunlight. How can a tea grown in the Devildom, devoid of the sun, of the Earth’s bright atmosphere, taste like sunshine? It tastes like rain. It tastes like dewdrops on blue petunias, it tastes like the scent of dandelions and buttercups, it feels like a gentle touch upon skin, checking for bruises as the sun warms your hair, soft as childish laughter; it tastes like the first breath of air when you walk through the door after being away from home for days, rings with the sound of the trees, with summersong.</p><p>It tastes like everything you've ever loved.</p><p>“B—” You swallow, tightly. “Barbatos.” Your hands are shaking, and you can’t find it in yourself to be properly ashamed of the way the cup rattles when you set it back in the saucer. “What <em>was</em> <em>that?</em>”</p><p>The demon is still, perfectly still, like he hasn’t moved, hasn’t taken his gaze from you since you raised the cup to your lips. “There have been several sins named the eighth in my memory.” His eyes, unblinking, seem to swallow the light, verdurous pools drinking it up so that whatever is at the bottom may grow and thrive. “Indeed, this tea is called Meminisse—<em>to remember</em>.”</p><p>You take a long, slow breath through your nose to try to cleanse the lingering cobwebs of nostalgia, to calm your nerves. “Memory is a sin?” you say dryly.</p><p>Barbatos shakes his head very slightly. “It is not the remembrance; it is how you respond to the memories, and what you do with them.” </p><p>The teacup sits where you left it, beautiful and unobtrusive. The shortcake rests on the plate beside it, and you find yourself longing for something so pleasant. Not that the tea was itself <em> un</em>pleasant. No, it was…</p><p>“It was so sweet.” The words leave your mouth so softly it’s like they were meant to stay safely locked away in your head. </p><p>“The tea tastes like every good thing your senses recall.” He lifts his own cup, and inhales deeply of the scent, closing his eyes. “There is no sin. It is only colloquially named as the Eighth because such memories can inspire two things.” At this, Barbatos drinks, and you think you can hear the whisper of breath as he exhales, slowly, after the first taste. His shoulders relax, mouth curved in that slight smile, but there’s the slightest wrinkle to his brow. “Despair, or Complacency.” </p><p>You've never thought that either of these could be considered sins, and you don't understand. Both can be dangerous, yes, if not kept in check, but for them to be considered inherently harmful...?</p><p>"What does it taste like to you?" </p><p>Barbatos' brows arch before he catches himself. "Not the way it tastes to you." </p><p>Ah. Yes, that was probably a rude question. "I apologize… that was inappropriate."</p><p>His head tilts very slightly, and you look at your cup again. This would be an excellent moment to recover with a sip of tea but you don't think you can bring yourself to do it. </p><p>"The cake will help." He's still watching, no doubt noticing the way you hesitate to move. </p><p>You find you’re almost afraid to reach for it, the dull ache in your heart setting the rhythm of your pulse. And so you try for a light tone: “Is there antidote in it?”</p><p>A smile, but this one is… it’s an expression you’ve never seen on Barbatos’ face before. “The cake is only cake.” </p><p>As you reach for your fork, he lifts the cup to his lips again and the evening light catches his eyes like it caught the tea, gleaming—</p><p><em>Sadness</em>.</p><p>You don’t know what to do, so you take your bite of cake.</p><p>It is <em>delicious</em>.</p><p>“I am glad to know it.” Your head darts up, unaware that you’d spoken aloud. Barbatos’ eyes are closed as he cradles the cup and saucer in gloved hands. </p><p>Indeed, the tartness of the rhubarb perfectly compliments the sweetness of strawberry, both offset by heavy cream and light cake in a way that fills your stomach and makes it just a little easier to breathe. “It does help.”</p><p>“It grounds you to the present,” he says, and looks at you again. “If you drink again, the effects will not be as strong, and by the time you finish, the taste should only be pleasant.” </p><p>You hope he’ll forgive you if you’re feeling dubious. “I think I need a little more cake first.”</p><p>He smiles. “Of course. You need not drink until you’re ready.” His head tilts slightly to one side, and he sets his cup and saucer on the table as you take another bite of cake—so real, cool and delightful—before levelling his gaze seriously. “And you needn’t finish if you do not wish to. I will provide you with a more suitable tea.” </p><p>Your heart leaps at the thought that you might not have to face the emptiness that follows the taste, just as it sinks with a pang at the idea that you might not feel the bright flavor again. “I don’t want to seem… ungrateful,” you decide. “I know few humans must have had this opportunity.” </p><p>“Ambrose.” He tucks a hand under his chin, the gesture so often a disclaimer for sardonic observation now transformed into a genuine accent of concern. “You needn't stand on ceremony.”   </p><p>You blink. <em> This</em>, from the demon who seems incapable of doing anything <em> but</em>. And to be honest, you don’t know what you would do if you didn’t have ceremony to stand upon, especially in a moment like this one. </p><p>"Perhaps you’ve reached the first disappointment?" The words should be a light jest, with his polite smile back in place—but they ring heavily. </p><p><em> Disappointment? </em> At the opportunity to taste memories of <em> love? </em>The sting of a glad moment's passing does not last so long that you should regret the joy you had felt before. </p><p>But the words don't come to your lips. </p><p>So, you lift the cup to them instead, and when you drink, neither of you look away. </p>
<hr/><p>The Sunday teas become routine before you can think twice. Barbatos arrives at the door to the House of Lamentation at precisely 3:30, and by the time three weeks have passed, he no longer needs to knock: you open the door just as the time rolls over on your DDD. When Diavolo joins you, teatime is comfortable and lively, but by the time six weeks have passed, he gets called away so often that you wonder whether Sunday afternoon is simply an inconvenient time for him—but you’re grateful that he always allows Barbatos to keep your appointment.</p><p>Another day, another pastry: apricot jam on the lightest, softest English muffin you’ve ever eaten. And Lord Diavolo in absence yet again. </p><p>“May I ask a question of you?” The hazy light of afternoon streams through the window, catches the angular plane of Barbatos’ cheek, the gentle slope of his nose.</p><p>The teacup is iron, without handles, and it warms your fingertips. “Of course; I ask you questions all the time.”</p><p>His polite half-smile tenses slightly into something more distant. “A question <em> of you</em>,” he restates, slowly and clearly. “You are my lord’s guest.” </p><p>“Your lord isn’t here.” Try for a smile and sip from the cup; it’s heavy and sharp in flavor, and lingers on your tongue. It’s a mutation, he’d said, a tea cultivated to survive in the Devildom’s harsh soil and strange atmosphere. </p><p>“Indeed.” But Barbatos only fixes you under a patient, verdant stare. He doesn’t need to avert his eyes to refresh his own tea. “But you are here by his invitation, and I would not presume to ask a personal question without offering you the same opportunity in return.” </p><p>You blink. Occasionally, you played at courtesies, but it seems he’s serious about this one. “I would give you the answer regardless; you don’t need to offer me anything.” </p><p>His face sinks into an expression halfway between distant amusement and—a shiver, unbidden, slinks down your spine—something decidedly foreboding. “Never give,” the demon says, quietly, “what will not be reciprocated.” Smoothly, he stands, and you set your cup down without thinking so that he can fill it again. “Not in matters of importance.” The tea whispers, rings against iron. “The pacts you have made so far are advantageous, but do not forget that you should never give any part of yourself for nothing.” </p><p>Let the words reflect in the river of your conscious thought a moment, as the teapot settles back down on the off-white lace that covers the table. It is sound advice… after all, it’s sometimes easy to forget that the brothers with whom you’ve been living are <em> demons</em>. Strange, though, that it never truly leaves your mind when you’re faced with Barbatos. And yet—”Is the question really that serious?” </p><p>He has returned to his seat, but the weight of his gaze never left. “All knowledge is very serious,” he assures, and the line at the corner of his mouth softens, returning to the usual placid turn, almost teasing. “All that you say is important.” </p><p>Fingers tighten in your lap, lips parted slightly—how could he know? Is your doubt so visible? For you, a small kindness is a trifle, to answer a question simply because someone asked, an act of no consequence. Most of the time, you’re certain no one is really listening anyway, that they’ll inevitably forget, and there’s nothing at all wrong with that—it makes existing easier; it brings your mind some peace to know that you’re not at the center of the narrative, to let everything flow around you. </p><p>Your heart sits tight in your chest. “If you value my word so highly...” you say carefully, considering each syllable, as nerves forcefully bid you to do something with your fingers. “I will answer your question and ask one in return—” You grab first one cuff and then the other, tugging them down and straightening the sleeve so that each brass button sits in line with the curve of your thumb. “—because I value yours.”</p><p>Barbatos does not disguise the way his brows twitch in surprise before settling into an expression that makes his eyes look warm, the slight crinkle at their edges gentle. “It is my honor,” he assures. </p><p>“The honor is mine,” you counter, automatically, and reclaim your teacup. </p><p>You both sip, and the silence is expectant, oversaturated. </p><p>“Suppose you had the power to turn time back.” Barbatos gazes into his cup. “What would you change from your past?”</p><p>Ah. Not for the first time, you wonder how much research the Demon Prince did for his exchange program, how much it’s possible for them to know about you. Why he chose <em> you</em>, out of every human in the world. You’re not special. There’s nothing particularly impressive about you—not that you have no skills; there’s plenty you bring to the table, but you’re not… well, you’re not <em> Solomon</em>. </p><p>And as for your past…</p><p>Everything that has shaped who you have become...</p><p>There’s one moment that springs immediately to mind. One moment in particular that feels like everything hinged upon it, every little disaster that came after. It’s not something anyone could find by looking up your history, from perusing government or school documents, nor necessarily by interviewing someone who had been close to you at the time. But that one decision. That singular moment… would you call it a regret?</p><p>If you could wipe it from your history, you know absolutely everything would change to follow suit, so many things averted, so many dark places suddenly bright and peaceful—</p><p>But what would that mean for today? </p><p>Close your eyes. Drink from the tea. Let it run, warm like sunshine, down your throat. Let the flavor linger in sharp notes across your tongue. </p><p>Open your eyes, and find Barbatos watching your careful consideration. </p><p>“Everything that's ever happened to me… everything I've regretted has brought me to this moment." Your fingers curl into burnished iron as though they might be able to find the right words etched into its surface. "I'm afraid if I changed something, I wouldn't be here, now." A thumb traces the rim of your cup. "And I'm happy with this moment, this year—all the things which haven't happened yet. For that, I wouldn't change anything." </p><p>He doesn’t blink, and for a moment, you get that brief sensation of falling, of peering too far down a winding stairwell, of standing on the edge of a cliff looking into a boundless, green sea. </p><p>And then you’re securely in the burgundy parlor, watching as Barbatos closes his eyes and raises his cup to his lips. You take the opportunity to have the last bite of your muffin, as sweet and tart as the first. </p><p>When he opens his eyes, they’re shrouded again, but warm. “Thank you, Ambrose.” He tilts his head, the slightly iridescent emerald strands of his hair brushing his forehead. “You show a surprising amount of wisdom, and—” His eyes flick from you to his tea. “I’m sure my lord would be most pleased to know that you’re so happy here.” </p><p>You smile, feeling warm, and don't tell him that he seems rather pleased with this knowledge himself. </p><p>"Now," he says, briskly, offering another pastry from a dainty plate, "you may ask me anything you wish."</p><p>Of course you accept another of the English muffins, and serve yourself generously from the crystal dish of jam, ignoring the slight burn over your stomach that reminds you of Beel and his endless hunger. It would be a simple thing to just return Barbatos’ own question to him, but… that feels like a cop-out. “Every question I’ve ever had has suddenly left my brain,” you chuckle, and he echoes the sentiment. </p><p>“If you can’t think of something today,” he assures, “we will have another opportunity in the future.” </p><p>Take a bite of the muffin, and try not to wiggle your shoulders in delight. How is <em> everything </em> Barbatos bakes at such an otherworldly level of perfection? “I’ll come up with something… I just need a moment.” Asking about baking is rather a waste of a question since you know you wouldn’t understand anything about cooking anyway, and the answer is quite probably ‘ages of practice.’ So you watch him for a moment, consider the way he sips at his tea, at his understated, conservative gestures, smooth and consistent. Barbatos measures out each movement with precision that speaks of ages of repetition you can’t begin to imagine, a fluidity in them that almost makes you think he knows exactly what will happen before it can occur. </p><p>“I have something,” you say, and Barbatos refocuses his attention on you. “But it’s not a question, exactly. It’s… more of a statement that you might be able to elaborate on for me.” </p><p>“Interesting…” He brushes his chin with a gloved hand. “What is it?” </p><p>“I’ve noticed that sometimes, it’s easy to forget Lucifer and his brothers are demons… I don’t know if that’s because I spend so much time with them, but they often feel almost—well—human isn’t quite right, but it’s close.” Your teeth briefly catch the inside of your cheek as it suddenly occurs to you that he might be offended. But… it’s an honest observation. “However, I never really seem to forget around you or Lord Diavolo, even for a moment. It’s not a bad thing,” you’re quick to add, though Barbatos’ expression has not changed. “But there’s just always something…”</p><p>His little smile becomes amused. “<em>Other?” </em></p><p>Your ears grow hot. “Yes.” </p><p>Barbatos gives a dry chuckle. “That isn’t surprising.” He straightens in his chair, almost at attention. “Lord Diavolo and I are not the same as Lucifer and his brothers. They are a somewhat special case, because their natures are now, at the core, a corruption of the divine. They will always be children of <em> both </em>realms, and that’s very likely why they feel different to you. They are… akin to humans, in that way. No longer completely divine, but not entirely hellish.” He folds his hands neatly in his lap. “Lord Diavolo and I have always been demons.” </p><p>You nod, slowly. Yes, that does make sense. “What does that mean for you?”</p><p>He arches a brow. “What does… being a demon mean?”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>For a moment, he says nothing, only studies your face, eyes roving like he can read invisible sigils upon your skin. Then, just before you have to look away, he speaks. “The same thing being human means to you, I suppose.” He leans into the high back of his chair, and takes his teacup in his hands. “We are what we are.”  </p><p>A bittersweet softness settles in your chest, and you raise your cup. “I’ll drink to that.” </p><p>“<em>Vives*</em>, then.” Barbatos’ eyes crinkle, a proper smile settling on his lips, and he lifts his tea in return. “And may we be our best.” </p>
<hr/><p>
  <em><strong> Barbatos:</strong> Are you free tomorrow afternoon? If you have no prior plans, would you like to visit the Demon Lord’s Castle? </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong> You:</strong> Is Lord Diavolo rescheduling our Sunday tea? </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong> Barbatos:</strong> No, it’s nothing like that. I am inviting you over simply because I wish to see you. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong> Barbatos:</strong> That’s all there is to it. </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong> Barbatos:</strong> Would you be willing to visit the castle for that reason? </em>
</p><p>
  <em><strong>Barbatos:</strong> I look forward to your answer. </em>
</p><p>This time, you’re out in the gazebo, looking across a lake constantly bathed in moonlight. The shore itself is often lit by the greenish semblance of daytime atmosphere, the false sun, but no matter what, the midnight waters of the lake sparkle under silvery light like they’ve been touched by the full moon. It’s a stark and strange effect in the late afternoon, but you love seeing the dark, glassy water broken only by a stray insect or the bob of an odd fish. It’s quite peaceful with the lake on one side and a beautiful, blooming garden on the other. </p><p>Barbatos has brought a set of delicate ceramic that looks like it’s been shaped straight from the earth. The artist—a human, you’re told—took great pains to etch a beautiful pattern of wysteria around each richly brown piece before it was fired. There’s a covered plate as well that you know contains some delectable pastry, and your mouth is watering already, but—</p><p>“Would you like to walk in the garden first?” he asks. “I know you inquired about it at our last tea with Lord Diavolo.”</p><p>You smile. “I’d love to, but won’t the tea get cold?”</p><p>There’s the slightest amusement in the arch of his brow. “Not if it knows what is good for it.” </p><p>Rising from your seat in one of the white, wicker chairs, you let your grin grow a little broader. Of <em> course </em> it wouldn’t get cold with a demon steward looking after it. “Lead the way, my good sir.” Hold your breath.</p><p>Barbatos’ bow sweeps a little lower than normal, and his eyes glitter. “If you’ll accompany me, my esteemed guest?” </p><p>“But of course.” Let the breath go in a relieved little huff knowing your light tease was well-received, and take his arm as you’ve grown accustomed. The fabric of his uniform always seems somehow finer than the one you wear for classes, but perhaps that’s to be expected. You feel no body heat through it, and wonder if that’s simply an effect of the quilted layers, or if he runs much colder than a human… but that would be markedly different from most of the demons you regularly spend time with. Beelzebub, for example, gives off heat like a furnace, and Mammon, you’re sure, could single-handedly keep you from freezing to death. But Barbatos… you simply don’t know. </p><p>He guides you down a path that winds slightly away from the castle, and back toward it again to put you among the hedges and vines and low-hanging branches of trees. It’s unlike any garden you’ve ever had the opportunity to see in person, beautifully arranged while allowing the plants to grow as they will, almost wild, creating nooks and shelters with stone benches and bizarre statuary that nearly makes you believe you’ve wandered into another realm entirely. A soft, rustling sound, like crickets, follows your footsteps, and the trees rattle with the voices of what you’re sure are cicadas. </p><p>Moments of silence between you are never uncomfortable, but you don’t hesitate when a question comes to mind. “Are the insects here the same as they are in the Human Realm, or are they all more like the infernal bees… a Devildom variety?” </p><p>“There are some here in this garden that are from your realm, but most insects in the Devildom are native species, a few similar to the ones you know, and many that you would not recognize.” His eyes rove over the plants as though he can see beyond what your gaze perceives.</p><p>You spot what looks like a swallowtail butterfly as it alights upon a translucent flower—but it flutters with two sets of wings. Somehow, you’re sure Barbatos can see the ants from here, perhaps aphids and gnats if he cares to do so. </p><p>“What about the cicadas?” They don’t stop singing, their song softening only to rise again in the jittering tune you recognize. </p><p>“You know them.”</p><p>“They’re special to me,” you answer his unspoken question: <em> how </em>do you know. </p><p>The weight of Barbatos’ fathomless gaze settles with all the crushing depth of the sea, the slow march of time measured by ceaseless currents. You know precisely what’s stopping him from voicing his thoughts. And, yes, you could just answer again, fully; he wouldn’t have to say a word, but… </p><p>“You may ask.” Your grip tightens reflexively on the edge of his sleeve, fingers brushing the top of his hand. His gloves are soft, a finely woven linen, you think. “Didn’t you say I’m <em> your </em> guest today? But… even if that weren’t the case, I consider you a friend. You can ask me whatever you want.” You try for a smile, though anything but a flush under such a heavy gaze seems always impossible. “I ask you far too many questions all the time.” </p><p>Your own expression doesn’t seem to matter as Barbatos glances away, his usual, polite mask settled carefully in place. He looks at you again, but not quite directly. “Why are they special to you?” </p><p>The cicadas continue their song, resonating, rising, falling. </p><p>This time, you smile freely. “They always know when it’s time.”</p><p>Nothing changes on his face, but because your arms are still linked, you can feel the tense flex of muscle, the whip-quick adjustment of posture, and you know that’s not at all what he expected. <em> Why</em>, you don’t know, so you hurry to continue, to explain—</p><p>“Cicadas are born with one glimpse of the sun and then bury themselves in the earth in order to grow. They stay buried, sometimes for years… there’s a species I know that lies dormant for <em> seventeen years </em> before emerging into the world. Somehow, they just <em> know </em> when the time has come, and they dig their way out of the earth without ever once doubting, never second-guessing, never wondering if they’ve made a mistake. They come alive and know that everything will be there waiting for them.” You wish you could see the one that you know is in the dark, maple-like tree above, but you’re lost now in your words, and, like the chittering song, you can’t stop. “I read once that cicadas are the souls of poets who weren’t able to say everything that they wanted to while they lived. Now, they’re able to spend their new life singing everything they didn’t have time to write.” You close your eyes against the familiar ache in your chest, and open them again to the garden, to the unfamiliar, hazy green sky, to the alien plants, to a sharp, beautiful gaze. “They come out of the ground and decide they can be something new; they leave behind the shell, all the delicate, empty things, and they fly away.” The sound catches the breeze, chittering, bright and joyful, <em> I am, I am, I am. </em> “All that time in darkness, and the first thing they do is <em> sing</em>.” There’s a tightness in your throat, but you ignore it, push past. “Can you imagine, Barbatos?”</p><p>The demon seems to watch something very far away, eyes distant, but not unfocused. For a moment, you wonder if maybe you’d said too much, if—but when you begin to relax your hold, his other hand crosses his chest, covers yours, keeps it secure upon his arm. </p><p>“Yes,” he says. But Barbatos’ gaze lingers on the distance, and you can feel him shift with his next breath. “I can.” He blinks, and looks upon you at last, but you can’t read his expression. “They are… familiar to me.” </p><p>It’s in that moment you’re struck with realization. The lustrous, green coloration of his hair is beautiful, certainly, and no more unusual than Leviathan’s deep blue or the soft pink Asmodeus occasionally sports—at least, not for a demon. But only now do you realize where you’d seen that precise, faintly luminous shade before. </p><p>“I do not know if they have the souls of poets—” He smiles slightly. “—but they may cross realms as they please.”  </p><p>Something soft settles in your chest. The song rises and falls. <em>I'm</em> <em>glad </em>isn’t a strong enough sentiment, though true. There’s a memory of faintly iridescent veins leading from chiton into delicate wings that shine like the fine threads of his hair. </p><p>“Thank you,” you say, instead, for the small comfort that quiets the guilt-leaden voice on the edge of your mind. </p><p>He doesn’t seem to know what to do with that, his expression caught somewhere between polite acceptance and quiet contemplation. “I am pleased that you appreciate them.” </p><p>You linger under the violet canopy of the tree, and Barbatos doesn’t remove his hand from yours, holding you closely, securely, and you don’t dare break the silence this time. Does it mean anything at all, being tucked into the embrace of a demon—of a friend? </p><p>“Shall we take tea now?” he offers, and you know time must be short.</p><p>“Yes, please.” You’re content, and you think that the moment is over, but Barbatos keeps his hand steady over yours through every step you retrace. </p><p>Each bloom seems just a little more vibrant as you pass, and when the gazebo is in sight, you ask, “What did you bake for today?”</p><p>“A Styx-cherry tart,” he says lightly, relaxing a little, and you feel a bit guilty that you hadn’t noticed before that he was still so tense. “The trees grow along the banks of the river, and the fruit has a flavor similar to the cherries you know, with a more Stygian profile, and they tend to be overall more tart.” </p><p>“Perfect for a tart,” you rib with a grin. </p><p>His eyes crinkle slightly in amusement. “Just so.” </p><p>Barbatos releases you only when you’ve reached the wicker chair you’d been seated in before, at the matching table still set with a royal blue cloth and the tea-tray. Briskly, he begins laying your places—cups first, then plates and silver that had been wrapped in napkins embroidered with delicate wisteria blossoms that match the tea set. </p><p>When he removes the lid of the pastry dish, it’s all you can do not to gasp in delight at the pastel pink tart beneath, beautifully garnished with freshly halved cherries. As it is, you know you must have some kind of ridiculous expression on your face, because Barbatos’ mouth sneaks up just a little when you tell him how beautiful it is. </p><p>“Thank you, but the taste is the true test.” He cuts a thin slice for your plate before fetching the teapot. </p><p>“Barbatos, everything you make tastes just as good as, if not <em> better </em>than it looks,” you argue as he pours a much lighter tea than normal into your cup; it’s a fine shade of almond, and, as promised, is still steaming like the water was just boiled. </p><p>“I thank you for the compliment,” he hums, expression gently serene. He picks up a little earthenware pitcher next, and poffers it for inspection. Inside, there’s a thick, off-white liquid not unlike buttermilk. “This tea is traditionally served with fermented cream; it’s a Devildom variety called Asphodel—no relation to the plant variety in the Human Realm—and the properties of the cream negate a chemical that does not interact well with a human's biology, so you will be tasting it in this fashion.” </p><p>You incline your head. “As you recommend.” </p><p>He gives a short bow before adding just enough of the cream to set the color changing from almond to something more along the shade of a cashew, the milk settling unevenly in the cup until he takes up the gleaming silver spoon and briskly stirs—</p><p>
  <em> Clank. </em>
</p><p>Your heart drops straight to your stomach before you can figure out why. </p><p>Barbatos lifts the spoon slowly from your teacup, turns it in the air. Everywhere the silver had touched the liquid, it had tarnished immediately. He is still—very, very still. </p><p>“Call Lucifer.” He speaks evenly, briskly, but it’s betrayed by a resonance that has your hair standing on end. His mouth sets itself in a grim line. “You must return to the House of Lamentation immediately.” There’s electricity in the air that you know well; you can taste its sharpness on your tongue, but unlike every time you’ve felt this before, unlike each of the Brothers, the demon in front of you does not transform. He only folds the spoon into a napkin and decisively pushes your place setting toward the center of the table. </p><p>Your phone is in your hand as you fumble to dial Lucifer’s number, but your eyes are on Barbatos. The linen-wrapped spoon disappears into his coat. You want to ask what it is, but you already know; the properties of silver were covered in the first week of alchemy. “Poison,” is all you find yourself saying. </p><p>You had almost forgotten how these teas started. </p><p>Barbatos does not pause as he arranges everything back on the tray by rote. “Yes.” </p><p>“I’m assuming it’s not <em> you </em> they want dead.” You try for levity, but you can taste the futility before the words are out of your mouth. </p><p>He debates his answer—you can almost see it as his hands falter over the ceramic. The energy in the air seems to flicker and thicken like cloying humidity. “No.” </p><p>It all makes sense. Strangely, there’s a comfort in it, to be validated after these few months. To have proof, to have <em> certainty </em> of the dissent that’s been so carefully hidden until now. </p><p>Nod, slowly, and hit the call button. “All right.”</p><p>You think you’re taking this rather well.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*Vives - a Latin toast: “live” or “may you live”</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Part II: The Inflexible</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>My deepest thanks again to Tan, Hylla, and Pibbs, who have been instrumental in the existence and shape of this piece. I don't believe there are any content warnings for this chapter beyond one instance of violence and there is mention of torture, but it's not explicit. </p><p>
  <b>Atropos<b> - in ancient Greek religion, the third of the three Fates, the Unturnable or Inflexible One, who cuts the thread of life</b></b>
</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>There is no tea the following week; there is, however, a Council meeting you’re barred from attending. </p><p>You should probably be angry, but you’re just disappointed. You are the one who was almost poisoned; shouldn’t they be more considerate? Still. This is how things go, and not much can be changed. It won’t do to dwell on it. </p><p>Of course, not dwelling is somewhat difficult when you’ve been assigned <em> two </em> extra caretakers in the form of the heavenly host for your mandatory study session. </p><p>“They still don’t know who did it?” Luke’s brows are drawn in righteous… well, <em> fury </em> isn’t exactly the expression, though you’re sure he means it to be. A righteous <em> harumph </em> is closer to reality. </p><p>“No.” Solomon has a hand folded under his chin, elbow propped on the round table. He’s studying you, grey eyes indecipherable as ever. </p><p>“Then what are they doing!” the little angel demands. “Shouldn’t they be out trying to find the demon scum? What if this was actually the plan all along!” He slams his hands on the textbook he hasn’t bothered to open. “What if they’re actually trying to <em> start </em> a war? You can’t trust—”</p><p>Simeon rests a firm hand on Luke’s shoulder. “If they wanted a human to die, wouldn’t Ambrose be dead already?”</p><p>“I—” He scrunches his face and sighs. “Okay. But <em> somebody </em> wants them dead!” </p><p>“<em>Luke </em>—” The senior angel casts a heavily sympathetic glance at you. </p><p>“It’s fine.” You give them a gentle smile. “It’s only the truth, and that’s all right.” </p><p>“But it’s not all right!” Luke protests. “You’re in danger!” </p><p>“I’ve always been in <em> some </em> amount of danger, haven’t I? And besides…” You set your pencil on its eraser-end and roll it between your fingers. “...this means they’re too afraid to try to attack me directly.” </p><p>“Well said.” Solomon smiles slightly in that illusory, all-knowing way of his. You wonder sometimes if he learned to appear so mysterious from Barbatos.  </p><p>“At least I know the pacts and escorts work.” You cast a glance back down at your untouched notebook. There’s an old doodle in one of the margins; many of the infernal inscriptions and alchemical symbols catch your eye during classes and make their way onto the page alongside your notes. </p><p>Suddenly, there’s a finger tracing it. Solomon is leaning across the table, not even really looking at the page, still eyeing you. “This isn’t one of yours.” </p><p>Your brow furrows. “One of mine…?”</p><p>“You’re doodling the infernal language and you don’t know what you’ve written?” He leans back in his chair, eyes shining with amusement. </p><p>“I don’t remember what we were looking at when I happened to draw it.” Ignore the burning in your cheeks. “I just doodle while I’m listening to lectures because it helps me focus.” </p><p>“It’s a sin.” Somehow, his smug amusement only becomes more overbearing. “But it’s not in a pact you’ve already formed.”</p><p>You frown. “Are you going to read it for me, or tell me to go back and research it?”</p><p>“I should make you go back and find it, but seeing as you’re not even allowed to sit in on a discussion about the assassination attempt on <em> your </em>life…” He teases the moment out even as Simeon’s pointed frown begins to match yours. “It’s Complacency.” </p><p>Your eyes set themselves on the symbol again. Yes… the sin that you can’t comprehend being classified as such, one of two: Complacency and Despair. You trace it now, your fingertip rasping across paper and graphite, along the curved contours, the triangular points, the solid cross. The memory of a flavor like sunlight springs to your tongue. “I don't remember where I saw it.”</p><p>“It certainly doesn’t do to <em> become </em> complacent,” says Simeon carefully. “Luke is right about that much. It worries me that the both of you aren’t more concerned about this.”</p><p>Solomon folds his arms, tucking his hands against his sides. “I’m well aware of the gravity of the situation. Barbatos has been hunting the culprit nonstop since the incident.” He glances sidelong at your expression of surprise. </p><p>“I thought Lucifer was doing that,” you explain. “He hasn’t been home all week except to check in.” </p><p>“Barbatos was there when it happened, wasn’t he?” asks Luke.</p><p>You nod. </p><p>“Then it makes sense that he’d want to since he’s the one that found out first,” the little angel decides. “He seems pretty good—” His eyes widen. “Decent! <em> For a demon</em>. He’s <em> decent </em> for a demon.” </p><p>Barbatos probably considers it his duty, you realize with a sinking feeling in your gut. “I’m sure he feels responsible.” Your brows knit together. “They used the tea <em> he’d </em> prepared to try to administer the poison.” </p><p>The sorcerer makes a sound that could be either affirmation or disagreement. “He’s <em> furious</em>.”</p><p>Your hand tightens around your pencil, freezing it mid-turn.  “What do you mean?” No. That’s not the question you mean to ask. “How do you know?”</p><p>Solomon smiles. “We have a pact.”</p><p>Yes, you knew that. The only reason you’re aware is a passing remark Satan made one day to illustrate the reasons you should be wary of the man… his guile is unmatched, sometimes more demonic than human—and Solomon is the only living human with whom Barbatos still has a pact. “And that means you know how he’s feeling?” There’s a tell-tale burn low on your spine and you try swiftly to mitigate the emotion. </p><p>This is one thing they didn’t tell you when you began making pacts with demons: you’ll forever be seared by the sin you commit with each transgression. The dull burn upon your flesh, there at the small of your back, along your spine, is the coiled rune of envy. </p><p>“You know it’s rude to ask about other people’s pacts, don’t you?” Solomon replies smoothly, his tone never betraying a hint of accusation.</p><p>You can feel your cheeks heating up anyway. “I apologize. I wasn’t explicitly aware, but yes, that makes sense.” </p><p>And then the sorcerer is laughing, that light, boyish chuckle of his that’s simultaneously endearing and irritating, depending upon the situation. Right now it’s firmly in <em> irritating </em> territory. “You can ask me whatever you like under the circumstances—you’ve never had a master nor a tutor.” He smiles, graciously, like a king, and you’re even <em> more </em> frustrated. “I just may not always answer your question.” </p><p>Well… you really wish you had more choices but he’s right. Solomon is the <em> only </em>human you have here and the only person you know who has a plethora of experience dealing with demons. There’s no choice, but that doesn’t mean you have to completely trust him, either. </p><p>“I appreciate that, Solomon.” At least you can be as polite and impassive as the best of them when the need arises. You owe that to ten years working with the public from which you’ve never quite recovered.</p><p>“At your service.” His eyes glitter with amusement that you suspect is relevant to some joke you’re not going to be privy to anytime soon. “There are different types of pacts, and like most relationships, they develop according to your bond in the same way your pact-mark might evolve.” Indeed, you knew this; Beelzebub’s pentacle-like seal over your stomach soon morphed into something that more closely resembled the sun—its rays just brushing your belly button—after a couple nights spent in Beel’s room, keeping one another’s nightmares at bay. Seeing completely different marks on your skin in the morning had startled you badly, of course, but Beelzebub had smiled gently and explained that this was quite normal. “The stronger your friendship or trust, the more you may be able to feel of their emotions, just as they can feel your indulgence in their representative sin—if the demon isn’t specifically controlling what impressions they share, of course.” He uses one hand to cradle his chin, leaving the other folded over his torso. “Most of the time, your pact-mates will block those channels… unless what they’re feeling can’t be contained.” </p><p>Something stirs in your chest. “Are you saying you normally can’t—”</p><p>“I’m saying Barbatos is so angry that I’ve been feeling it since the moment he detected the poison.” Solomon is smiling again, eyes bright. “And I know that Lord Diavolo didn’t need to order him to look for the culprit.” </p><p>Emotion twists behind your breast, sharp.</p><p>“I imagine he must feel some responsibility,” says Simeon gently. “Perh—”</p><p>“Yo, Ambrose!” </p><p>You almost shove the table right into Luke’s chest in your hurry to stand and greet Mammon. “Are you finished?”</p><p>His hands are tucked into the pockets of his haphazardly buttoned uniform. “Nah. I came to get ya… Lord Diavolo wants to talk to you."</p><hr/><p>The council chamber has never seemed larger, nor more cavernous, leaving you as small and fragile as a parishioner in a cathedral. Mammon retakes his seat so that every lord is in his place—</p><p>Except for one.</p><p>Well, two, technically, but one seat has been empty since your arrival. </p><p>“Ambrose,” Diavolo greets, but his usually warm tone is dampened, swallowed up in the vast, empty chamber. “I had hoped to spare you from such concerns, but, due to recent developments, we must bring you into confidence.”</p><p>Oh.</p><p>There’s a silence, and you realize that he’s waiting for a response, so you offer a nod of acknowledgement. “I’m… sure it’s my honor.”</p><p>“Frankly…” Lord Diavolo sighs, folding his arms across his chest, head bowed a little to one side. “It really isn’t. I would have preferred that you never had to worry, but—”</p><p>“My Lord,” says Lucifer, not taking his eyes off you from where he sits in the high chair to Diavolo’s right, “if I may?” </p><p>He leans back into the cushion of his seat, looking somewhat relieved. “Of course.” </p><p>“Ambrose.” The demon’s eyes are ruby-red, unblinking. “As you are aware, there are those in the Devildom who would devour you for a taste of your soul. But there are also those who opposed Lord Diavolo’s plan to bring exchange students to RAD." He takes a breath, almost imperceptible, brow creasing in what you recognize immediately as <em> shame. </em>"Our own brother was one such demon."</p><p>You have to remember to feign surprise with the arch of your brow, the curve of your mouth. </p><p>"He had many followers, as can be expected from a member of the Council, but he did… come around to the idea, enough to participate in the exchange as a good example. Since then, most have obeyed Lord Diavolo's decree… a few, however, have continued to protest, and until now, have not had the courage to directly act against his wishes.” </p><p><em> That’s rather important information, isn't it? </em> pops immediately into your head. And: <em> You really ought to have told me this at the beginning of the semester, </em>but you say only: “I had my suspicions.” </p><p>Diavolo sits up straighter. “Elaborate.” </p><p>“Well… if you’re pursuing peace, there must be unrest,” you say, voicing the thought you’ve had a thousand times since your arrival. “I’ve never seen evidence of it, but there had to be something you didn’t want me to know when you started keeping me out of Council Meetings. <em> That </em> could have been anything, of course, but I couldn’t imagine every demon being all right with angels and humans suddenly free to wander their realm.” </p><p>From the corner of your eye, you can see a smile tug at Satan’s features, and Diavolo delivers a hearty chuckle. “I knew we made a good choice with you! Must be difficult keeping secrets from them at home, eh, Lucifer?”</p><p>There’s a prickle on the back of your neck as, though he addresses the Firstborn, the Demon Prince keeps his golden eyes locked on you. </p><p>Your heart hammers against your ribs.</p><p><em> Only a pact with each of my brothers will open the door</em>. </p><p>Difficult keeping secrets, indeed. </p><p>“More to the <em> point</em>,” continues Lucifer as if he hadn’t heard. “Until those responsible for your attempted murder are found and dealt with—"</p><p><em> Attempted murder. </em> It actually sounds properly real when put like that. You can't help casting a glance at the empty chair, offset, on the prince’s left.</p><p>"—you are to be escorted <em> everywhere </em> outside the House of Lamentation, including the halls of RAD, and you are to take meals only at home or in Lord Diavolo’s castle.” </p><p>Before you can speak, the prince creases his brow sadly. “I know the restrictions are severe, and I wish it weren’t necessary, but your life is too precious to gamble.” He spreads his hands across the podium. “Until this matter is resolved, the regulations will remain in place.”</p><p>“What about Solomon?” you ask. Surely they aren’t relying on his magic alone to save him.</p><p>Asmodeus laughs brightly from beside Leviathan. “Solomon has <em> plenty </em>of experience dodging murder attempts.” </p><p>“He does, indeed,” agrees Diavolo. “And he has more experience dealing with demons than you do at this time; however, he will be subject to the same meal restrictions.” </p><p>Solomon doesn’t look a day older than you, but you’ve long suspected there’s much more to him than meets the eye. Plenty of experience dodging murder attempts? Maybe you can wrest something out of him the next time you’re in study hall.<br/>For now, you sigh, and feel the strictures of social necessity clipping short your musings and producing a response without any input on your part. “I understand.” </p><p>“Then the matter is concluded, for now.” Lord Diavolo smiles softly even as Lucifer dips his head in a serious nod. “You’re all free to return to your duties.” </p><p>Your eyes dart again to the empty chair on the prince’s left, an anxiety slowly gnawing at your stomach. The Brothers rise, chair-legs scraping upon flagstones and the polished dias, the disgruntled huffs of people left in one position too long joining the cacophony. Mammon is making a beeline, but before anyone can speak to you, you muster up the courage—</p><p>“Lord Diavolo—” Your voice falters when he fixes curious, golden eyes back on you from his half-standing position. “May I… request a moment of your time? Privately?” </p><p>“Of course!” The prince plasters an innocuous, cheerful grin upon his face even as Lucifer fixes you under a ruby stare. But you’re not deterred, and Diavolo pays him no more mind than a cursory glance and pat on the shoulder. “Lucifer, I’ll catch up with you this evening.” </p><p>He gives a short, stiff bow. “My lord.” </p><p>Within a moment, Diavolo stands, towering, beside you. “What can I do for you?” he asks, still grinning with all his usual enthusiasm. Now, more than ever, you wonder if it’s as much a mask as the polite smile Barbatos chooses to don. </p><p>Speaking of whom… you hesitate, seeing Mammon and Asmodeus lingering nearby, pretending not to listen.</p><p>“Ah,” says Diavolo knowingly, and offers his arm. “I have the time for a walk through the courtyards; would you care to join me?” </p><p>“Thank you.” When you link your arm with the prince’s, though the material of his crimson sleeve is exceptionally fine, though he presents himself perfectly, your hold is clumsy. The fit just isn’t right.</p><hr/><p>Sweetgrasses line the cobblestone path through the courtyard, scenting the air with traces of lemon and vanilla. You do find yourself somewhat concerned about whether others could be lingering around the next bend, perhaps in the shadow of the fountain, maybe utilizing the wrought-iron table and chairs Barbatos has commandeered countless times for tea. The ache starts up in your chest again, the faint anxiety, the soft burn of the serpentine rune, and Leviathan is probably going to have something to say about this later—</p><p>“Lord Diavolo,” you begin, just as the two of you step through a latticed archway, bestrewn with ivy and strange, pointed flowers you don’t recognize…</p><p>You blink.</p><p>The courtyard appears to have transformed into one of the myriad sitting rooms of the palace. But that’s not right, of course; this must <em> be </em>the sitting room, and you—</p><p>“Please have a seat,” Diavolo invites, his grin genuinely amused. </p><p>You turn around just to check, and sure enough, the door is open to the palace’s hall, no trace of RAD’s courtyard to be seen. “Teleportation?” you guess, and unlink your arm from his to sit on the cream and gold fainting couch. </p><p>“Nothing so complex,” he assures, seating himself in a matching armchair much larger than any Edwardian example it might have been modeled after. </p><p>The whole room is done in cream, ivory, and gold, with ebony accents that you aren’t completely sure are wood. Since coming to the Devildom, you have tried to curtail your habit of touching things without knowing for sure if it’s entirely safe, so you haven’t exactly run your fingers along the knobby ends of chair arms or the inlay of the coffee table in this room. Besides, such an action within the Demon Lord’s Castle would be <em> tacky</em>. </p><p>This does not, however, curb your innate urge to feel the textures, so you fold your hands in your lap.</p><p>“It’s a simpler spell that Barbatos taught me centuries ago,” the prince continues, relaxing into the arched chair-back. “And I’m sure that’s who you’d like to ask me about; am I right?” </p><p>You try not to look too surprised. Have you been so transparent? “Yes, Lord Diavolo, it is.”</p><p>He waves a careless hand, as if to wipe the formalities away. “You don’t need to call me by my title here, remember? This isn’t exactly official business.” He arches a brow. “Or… is it?”</p><p>You wet your lips. “I’m actually not sure. It is relevant to the… murder attempt, but I’m not here out of political interest.” </p><p>“Assassination, technically,” Diavolo says coolly. </p><p>“What?”</p><p>The prince passes a hand across his cheek and jaw to rub at the back of his neck. “Technically, had the poisoning succeeded, it would have been assassination, not just murder. Once we find the culprit—or culprits—that’s how we’ll be charging them.” </p><p>Press your fingers over your eyes. </p><p>“I… didn’t mean to cause you any more worry.” Diavolo’s voice was gentle. “Please—”</p><p>“No, I’m sorry—” You pick your head up and meet his gaze. “I’m just… not sure how to react to the fact that I’m considered important enough to be classified for <em> assassination</em>.” </p><p>You might have expected the prince to chuckle, but he only blinks. “Of course you are.” </p><p>“Oh.” The carpet is patterned with spirals and flowers that seem simultaneously familiar and alien.</p><p>“You <em> do </em> understand that you’re an important representative of the human world, under my protection, to foster peace between our people?” </p><p>You sigh. “Yes, I do. Logically, I understand that, but this is… strange.” A wry smile twists your lips. “I’m not royalty or a politician. I’m nobody, really, except a student… the only thing that makes me important is the fact that I’m one of two humans here. It’s just strange to think about.” </p><p>Diavolo’s brow creases in such a disappointed fashion that you want to take it back, but he speaks before you can find something to say. “I’m afraid I can’t understand how that must feel.” He hesitates, starts again. “And I’d offer you some tea, but I fear it won’t be up to standard without Barbatos here.” </p><p>“Thank you,” you’re quick to reply, but there’s something much more important that you have to say, what you’d meant to ask in the first place. “But where is Barbatos?”</p><p>The prince straightens in his chair. “Right. That’s why we’re here.”  He folds his hands neatly. “In short, Barbatos is tracking down whoever tried to poison you. When was the last time you spoke with him?”</p><p>“Last Sunday,” you reply readily. “When Lucifer came to escort me back to the House of Lamentation.”</p><p>“Have you tried texting him?”</p><p>That question comes as a surprise. “No; I try not to bother him when I know he has extensive duties. The only time he texted me was yesterday morning, to cancel tea.”</p><p>“I see.” Diavolo has a strange look on his face, considering. </p><p>Your brow furrows. “You… <em> do </em> know where he is?”</p><p>“Hm?” His gaze refocuses. “Oh, yes! Yes, of course. He won’t return until he’s made headway or I summon him back to me for an urgent matter.” The prince spreads his hands. “But as you can see, there are no matters of higher import at the moment.” </p><p>It’s almost embarrassing to be the cause of so much fuss. Not that it’s your fault, really—of that, you are aware, but part of you wishes you could just tell them to forget about all this. And now that you have what Solomon told you confirmed, you’re not sure what else to ask. </p><p>But you don’t have to worry about continuing the conversation, as the prince folds his arms. “You said you don’t like to bother Barbatos.”</p><p>Head tilted slightly in curiosity, you nod. “Yes. He’s an exceptionally busy demon.”</p><p>Diavolo bobs his head. “But have you considered that texting is a good method of communication because the person you’re messaging can answer <em> at their convenience?” </em></p><p>Well… no. “I never want anyone to feel pressured to reply,” you say, as noncommittally as possible.</p><p>This time, the prince chuckles outright. “Trust me, Barbatos would <em> never</em>.” He relaxes into one side of the chair, mirroring your current position leaned on the arm of the fainting couch. “If that demon doesn’t want to talk, doesn’t have the time to add an extra task to his routine, he won’t.” </p><p>That does certainly sound like what you know of the no-nonsense steward. “I hadn’t considered that,” you admit.</p><p>“So!” continues Diavolo brightly. “With that in mind, make sure you text, and he’ll get back to you when he can.” He tilts his head, golden eyes gleaming with something like mischief. “<em>But</em>, right now, if it takes more than two days for a reply, don’t let him… oh, what’s that word students use… spirit you?”</p><p>Er. You might need help with that one. Demon slang? “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”</p><p>His youthful face tugs into a comical expression of deep thought. “I think I had it right… it’s… it’s when you text someone more than once and they just don’t reply; it’s like they don’t exist.”</p><p>“Oh.” Yes, you’ve heard this one; it’s human slang among young people. <em> Young people</em>. Oof, you’re getting out of touch. “Ghosting, I think.” </p><p>“That’s it!” His triumphant grin seems to warm the room with its sunshiny quality alone. “Don’t let him <em> ghost </em> you.”</p><p>“I thought you just told me that if he doesn’t want to speak to someone, he won’t.” </p><p>“Yes…” He nods dragging out the word. “<em> But</em>, in your case, I don’t think it’ll be because he doesn’t <em> want </em>to.” </p><p>If you furrow your brow any more, it’s going to get stuck like that. “Lo—Diavolo, I don’t understand.” </p><p>The prince sighs deeply. “After reporting the incident in the garden to me eight days ago, Barbatos requested that he head the hunt for the would-be assassin.” He brings a hand to his chin. “It’s because he feels responsible, you see. It happened on his watch, and, though I tried to tell him that he <em> did </em> save your life, he insisted that no one should have been able to come so close at all, and that the fault is his.” Diavolo’s golden gaze grows dark, eyes a honeyed amber. “That he made a mistake.” </p><p>You’re glad, suddenly, that you turned down that cup of tea. You have no idea whether you could possibly drink anything at this moment. “I see.” You’re not a fool. You just haven’t been allowing yourself to think about it: Barbatos left the tea service unattended to accompany you on a walk. There is no doubt that the poison was administered during that time. </p><p>Diavolo studies you carefully. “Yes, I believe you do.” He moves his chin over the back of his hand. “So, if Barbatos doesn’t reply, I would say it has more to do with a misplaced sense of… <em> responsibility </em>than anything.” </p><p>You wonder if “responsibility” is a common euphemism for “guilt” among demons, or if it’s just within the royal household that they bury feelings which could be misconstrued as weak under such a mark of office. </p><p>“This is important to me because you’re friendly with him,” he continues, and your brows arch. “Am I wrong?” He tilts his head, brow creasing. “Do you not consider Barbatos a friend—or, at least, would you not say that you’re on good terms?”</p><p>“We are—” Fold your hands tighter in your lap. “I can’t speak for Barbatos of course, but…” Of course you consider him a friend; you've told Barbatos himself as much before— “Yes.” You draw a quiet, steadying breath. “I would… <em> do</em> consider him a friend.” </p><p>Diavolo’s grin is practically <em> incandescent</em>, his delighted laugh <em>booming</em>. “<em>Fantastic!”</em> Before you can even decide how to feel about that, he sits forward in his seat like he’s ready to confide some diverting secret. “You see, it’s been a very long time since Barbatos has voluntarily made a friend. I—” He stops suddenly, mouth scrunched at the corner. “Actually. I don’t know <em> when </em> I last saw him make a friend, so this is really quite novel!” </p><p>Not for the first time, you wonder how many of the prince’s decisions revolve strictly around his personal amusement.</p><p>“Lucifer?” he mutters, squinting at some far-off place on the exquisitely tiled ceiling. “Maybe it was Lucifer. A <em> very </em> long time ago.” He shakes his head. “Anyway!” He smiles kindly. “You mustn’t let Barbatos discourage you. You may have to be insistent, but he won’t ignore you forever... he <em> does </em>enjoy your company.”</p><p>For some reason, he looks a little smug, but the fact that Diavolo thinks Barbatos is going to ignore you in the first place is not encouraging. Absently, nervously, you tug your cuffs down over your wrists to straighten the sleeves of your uniform. </p><p>“Mm." The prince’s brow furrows. “This conversation didn’t make you feel any better, did it?” </p><p>You respond reflexively: “I don’t mean to seem ungrateful, my lord.” Now you’ll have to text, but what—</p><p>“My L—? Ambrose,” Diavolo is blinking, wide-eyed. “Did you just…?”</p><p>“Hm?” A brow arches in question.</p><p>He shakes his head like he’s clearing it, with a smile that softens his eyes. “Never mind.”  </p><hr/><p>The DDD sits heavily in your hands. Past the softly glowing screen is the quilted comforter of your bed, emerald green and cream to match the ivy winding its way over the bedposts, along the walls. A slow, deep breath, and you type with both thumbs.</p><p>
  <em> I hope—</em>
</p><p>Erase the words before you can finish the thought. You hope that what, he doesn’t feel guilty? Diavolo already confirmed that he <em> does</em>. Bringing it up won't change it, that you know. </p><p><em> How are you? </em> is entirely too banal, though an honest question.</p><p><em> I’d like to see you </em> is absolutely out. He’s devoted to an important task, and if he weren’t—</p><p>Well, where do you stand with him, exactly? </p><p>Diavolo seemed to think the two of you friends and… Your cheeks start warming on their own as you recall the way Barbatos clasped your arm to him that day, in the garden, with the breeze on your face and the song of cicadas in your ears, before things went to—</p><p>Well.</p><p>Flop over and bury your face in the pillow. It doesn’t smell so pungently of greenery and the ashen spice which lingers around demons anymore, not like those first few nights. It had been hard to sleep then.</p><p>You look at the DDD again, not really lifting it off the mattress. The last message from you to Barbatos is <em> That’s all right</em>, a response to his sterile, simple: <em> Tea is cancelled today. My apologies. </em> You two really don’t communicate much via text, as evidenced by the prior exchange: <em> 3:30? </em> and <em> I’ll be ready! </em> You spoke far more often in person; texts were simply used to arrange meetings, to relay useful information. </p><p>Now you’re wishing you had something more to review, which is…</p><p>Very strange and a little pathetic since your schedule has only been disrupted for a week and a half. </p><p>“Hey!” You nearly send the phone rocketing across the room as it chirps. </p><p>“<em>Damn</em>.” You’d recovered only enough to let it slide sadly off the comforter and onto the wooden floor with a <em> thunk</em>, but at least it hadn’t gone slinging away into the opposite wall. </p><p>“You forgot about me,” the DDD, or rather, the demon spirit or magical app or whatever it might be, Karasu, accuses. “<em>And </em>you’re a klutz!” </p><p>Once you manage to scoop the phone off the floor without removing yourself entirely from the bed, hanging half upside-down, you see the little silhouette of the three-legged crow accompanying a message bubble containing the same text. “You startled me, but I didn’t forget,” you tell it.</p><p>“<em>Sure</em>,” Karasu sighs, voice crackling. “I see you’re having trouble writing a message. Did you forget how?”</p><p>All things considered, you shouldn’t be embarrassed in front of a <em> phone</em>, but that doesn’t stop your cheeks and ears from growing very warm. “No.” </p><p>“Hmmm, cat stole your tongue?”</p><p>Your brow creases. “Er… not exactly.” Might as well say it; who is Karasu going to tell? “I just don’t know what to say that’s appropriate.” </p><p>Your DDD sounds a musing caw. “I can help with that. If you want.” The demon spirit gives the distinct impression of nonchalance, of a being leaning casually against a wall and checking their nails. </p><p>You squint at the neat text. Can a phone demon try to Tempt you into a bad contract? Reread the words again, and try to feel for any hidden intent the way you’ve been practicing these last months. </p><p>There doesn’t appear to be any power in it… just mischief. Take a deep breath. “What did you have in mind?” </p><p>“Another <em> eye-spy</em>, just like before.”</p><p>Ah, the chats you’re privy to that you shouldn’t be able to see. A feature that should only be available on the Demon Prince’s device. “In exchange for…?”</p><p>The creaking voice drawls as carelessly as before: “Nothing; just don’t tell anyone.”</p><p>Your brows knit together. “Does Lord Diavolo know?”</p><p>“Nup.” </p><p>“Then… why? I’m sure you’re not supposed to be doing this.” </p><p>“Lord Diavolo commanded me to help you when this DDD was issued to you.” The text flickers quickly across the screen. “<em>Technically</em>, I’m only obeying his order.”</p><p>“You just want to see what you can get away with.” You let the corner of your mouth sneak up in a smile. “Break the rules without getting into trouble.”</p><p>“No, no,” Karasu croaks lightly. “I just <em> love </em> to help.” </p><p>“As you say.” </p><p>“Now, you wanna see it?”</p><p>You nod. “If it’ll help, yes, and I won’t tell anyone, just like before.”</p><p>A hiccuping, gurgle of a laugh issues from the DDD and your screen navigates on its own to a new chat window; then, just before Karasu’s image disappears: “Hope it helps.”</p><p>Before you can process that, your heart leaps to your throat upon recognizing the participants’ icons. The title of the group is <em> Dynamic Duo</em>.</p><p>And Barbatos is typing. </p><p>You watch the ellipsis. And watch the ellipsis. And watch the ellipsis.</p><p>It stops. Seconds pass. Your heart drops, and you close the window. </p><p>Wind up staring at your wallpaper—a picture you took one afternoon in the courtyard, holding the DDD at the same level as the top of a porcelain cup, its lip edged in gold as the false-sun lit the contents softly. You’d thought it quite appealing at the time, the setting of the wrought-iron table that contrasted cup and saucer and the soothing sweep of warm light like it’s been filtered through stormclouds in summer. Lucifer had actually been there this time, picking you up after the meeting because you and Barbatos had gotten a little too deep in a discussion about herbs and whether the magical properties humans attributed to them were anywhere near the <em> actual </em>magical properties they held according to demons and angels. Maybe you can just ask for Lucifer’s advice… he seems somewhat close with Diavolo and Barbatos, after all, and you recall Diavolo referring to him as one of the steward’s few friends. </p><p>Open the DDD back up, which had gone dark, and locate your chat with Lucifer—</p><p>
  <em> Bzz, bzzb! </em>
</p><p>You fumble for the notification window, and the <em> Dynamic Duo </em> chat reappears.</p><p><b> <em>Barbatos: </em> </b> <em> My lord. </em></p><p>
  <em> [Barbatos is typing.] </em>
</p><p><b> <em>Diavolo:</em> </b> <em> Barb. </em></p><p>Your eyebrows arch. That's new. The typing stops. A beat.</p><p><b> <em>Barbatos:</em> </b> <em> Diavolo.  </em></p><p><b> <em>Barbatos:</em> </b> <em> I wish to ask after their well-being. </em></p><p><b> <em>Diavolo:</em> </b> <em> I don't understand why you feel the need to ask permission.  </em></p><p><b> <em>Diavolo:</em> </b> <em> Actually I do. </em></p><p><b> <em>Diavolo:</em> </b> <em> But it isn't necessary. Of course you can ask.  </em></p><p>There's a heavy, oversaturated feeling in your heart. The prince isn't typing.</p><p><b> <em>Barbatos:</em> </b> <em> How is Ambrose? </em></p><p><em> Oh</em>. Your chest is tight.</p><p><b> <em>Diavolo:</em> </b> <em> We spoke today. I put some safety measures in place—no one is getting anywhere near the human without one of us present.  </em></p><p><b> <em>Diavolo:</em> </b> <em> But if you want to know how Ambrose is feeling, why don't you ask them yourself? </em></p><p>Heart in your throat, you watch the bottom of the screen for any indication of activity. And you watch. And watch. And watch. Then—</p><p><b> <em>Barbatos:</em> </b> <em> This is enough. </em></p><p><b> <em>Diavolo:</em> </b> <em> You usually lie much better than that. </em></p><p><b> <em>Diavolo: </em> </b> <em> Has something happened? </em></p><p>The ellipsis appears, indicating that Barbatos is typing. Disappears. Appears again. </p><p><b> <em>Diavolo:</em> </b> <em> WILL something happen? </em></p><p>Brow furrows. A very odd question, that… does the prince believe his steward is getting into more trouble than he can handle? The ellipsis continues its thoughtful pattern for a moment before disappearing yet again. </p><p><b> <em>Diavolo:</em> </b> <em> Call me. </em></p><p>You depress the button on the edge of your DDD, and the screen goes dark. Well, damn. Rest your head on the back of your hand, arm braced over one bent knee. Surely he’ll ask for help if he expects trouble? </p><p>He’s a Duke, you remind yourself, and titles here are given in accordance to <em> power</em>. You have no idea <em> what </em> kind of power he might wield, but you do know that Barbatos is, above all, practical. If the situation requires an extra set of hands, he’ll make sure he has it. For now, there’s little you can do. </p><p>But there is <em> one </em>thing.</p><p>You lift your head, light up the DDD, and navigate to Barbatos’ contact. This time, you type the message in full:</p><p>
  <em> How are you? </em>
</p><p>If he can’t ask, you’ll gladly do it for him. </p><hr/><p>You’re in bed, on the edge of sleep, when the phone finally vibrates. Movements sluggish, but mind suddenly sharp, you lean down to snatch your DDD from the floor, screen still dimly lit with the new message icon. Press with your thumb, swipe, blink the slight blur from your eyes. </p><p><b> <em>Barbatos: </em> </b> <em> I am flattered that you would think to ask, but you needn’t.  </em></p><p>Huff a soft, frustrated breath. </p><p><b> <em>You:</em> </b> <em> That’s not an answer.  </em></p><p><b> <em>Barbatos:</em> </b> <em> Forgive me.  </em></p><p>You can imagine the soft, amused smile surely on his lips.</p><p><b> <em>Barbatos:</em> </b> <em> I am well, and expect to return to my regular duties soon. </em></p><p><b> <em>Barbatos:</em> </b> <em> But how are you? </em></p><p>Your fingers tap out “I’m fine” automatically, but quickly erase the text. He wants to <em> know</em>. And, while <em> fine </em> is accurate enough, it would be an insult to brush off his concern so readily, especially after…</p><p>But… can you be completely truthful?</p><p><b> <em>You:</em> </b> <em> I am well, but I have missed our routine.  </em></p><p>Honest without being too direct. </p><p>And yet, your heart sits high in your throat as the screen makes no indication that Barbatos is formulating a reply at all. You wait… and you wait. Then—</p><p><b> <em>Barbatos:</em> </b> <em> I must apologize for my lack of diligence when last we met. </em></p><p><b> <em>Barbatos:</em> </b> <em> It could have cost you your life, and that is inexcusable.  </em></p><p>Bite the inside of your cheek, heart sinking sharply. </p><p><b> <em>You:</em> </b> <em> Barbatos… you saved my life.  </em></p><p><b> <em>Barbatos:</em> </b> <em> That is what Lord Diavolo said when I discussed the matter with him.  </em></p><p><b> <em>Barbatos:</em> </b> <em> But what both of you fail to take into account is the fact that my complacency gave opportunity to the assassin. If not for me, there would have been no poison to detect</em>.</p><p>You can feel the guilt, thick in the air, catching your throat, as surely as though he were sitting across from you. That won’t do...</p><p><b> <em>You: </em> </b> <em> I don’t blame you, and if Lord Diavolo doesn’t either, please don’t insist on blaming yourself. </em></p><p><b> <em>Barbatos:</em> </b> <em> I’m afraid you don’t understand. </em></p><p><b> <em>Barbatos:</em> </b> <em> The responsibility is mine, and I cannot be completely absolved of my role in the matter.  </em></p><p>
  <em> [Barbatos is typing.] </em>
</p><p>You’re not going to allow this to continue. </p><p><b> <em>You:</em> </b> <em> No—I do understand.  </em></p><p><b> <em>You:</em> </b> <em> You left the tea service unattended while we walked, and that presented an opportunity.  </em></p><p><b> <em>You:</em> </b> <em> But how could we expect anyone to be so bold as to attempt this at the Demon Lord’s Castle?  </em></p><p><b> <em>You:</em> </b> <em> MAYBE a moment of negligence allowed some other demon to attempt murder. But Barbatos, you’re not the one who put the poison into my cup. </em></p><p><b> <em>You:</em> </b> <em> You’re the one who discovered it before I could drink.   </em></p><p>Try, patiently, to wait for the ellipsis to reappear, while your heart sits in your throat, pressing your breaths through too narrow a space, stomach turning. The screen dims. Flick your thumb across its surface in the dark before it can go dormant. Slow, deep breaths, close your eyes and listen to the unfamiliar thrum of the Devildom’s crickets, to the faint song of a cicada in the distance. </p><p>When you open your eyes again, the screen has gone black, and even before you open it, you know that there is no new reply. </p><p><em> Don’t let him ghost you</em>, Diavolo’s voice reminds in the back of your head. </p><p><em> Two days</em>, you counter. Barbatos is working, after all. Your hand tightens round the DDD, darkening the screen with the press of a button. As long as he’s thinking on what you’ve said, and keeping himself safe, that’s all you can ask. Isn’t it?</p><p>
  <em> Bzz, bzzb! </em>
</p><p>The screen lights in a flash, startling hungry eyes, but you don’t care a bit—</p><p><b> <em>Barbatos:</em> </b> <em> You forgive too easily. </em></p><p><b> <em>Barbatos:</em> </b> <em> But I won’t disrespect your mercy by belaboring the matter.  </em></p><p>The ghost of a smile shadows your lips. That’s all you can ask.</p><p><b> <em>You:</em> </b> <em> Thank you, Barbatos. </em></p><p>The ellipsis appears, but only for a moment. </p><p><b> <em>Barbatos:</em> </b> <em> Thank you, Ambrose. </em></p><p><b> <em>Barbatos:</em> </b> <em> And... I have also missed our routine.  </em></p><p>Joy washes, warm, through your blood, heating your cheeks, the tips of your ears, sending a fluttering tremble down to your fingers and toes.</p><p><b> <em>Barbatos:</em> </b> <em> Now rest, or you’ll be late for your morning classes.  </em></p><p><b> <em>You:</em> </b> <em> All right. Please be careful, and good night. </em></p><p>The ellipsis appears one more time, and you can’t bring yourself to let the phone go dormant. Not just yet. You don’t want to let go of the lightness in your chest.</p><p><b> <em>Barbatos:</em> </b> <em> Good night, my friend.  </em></p><p>Close your eyes. Press the DDD’s edge to your forehead. The rhythm of your heart beats double, outpacing the thrum of the crickets until it meters the familiar summersong of home. </p><hr/><p>“I haven’t seen you for a few days,” a sardonic voice drawls from the other side of the door. “What’s the hold up?” </p><p>Brace your back to the cool plaster of the wall, slide down to a sitting position just beside the sealed entrance to the attic. It hums with magic, electric, just on the edge of physical sensation. “Someone tried to assassinate me.” </p><p>Silence.</p><p>“You sound pretty blasé. Happens to you a lot?” </p><p>The air is rather stuffy up here, and overwarm. “No. But I don’t know how else to react to the situation, so this will have to do. Panicking about it won’t get me anywhere.” </p><p>Belphegor sighs, musing. “Some <em> concern </em> might be good for you.”  </p><p>You hum. “Lucifer said something like that.” </p><p>“<em>Don’t </em> talk to me about <em> Lucifer</em>,” the demon hisses, and the hairs of your neck stand on end. </p><p>“I’m sorry.” Draw your knees up to your chest, slowly, as though the sound of it might irritate him further. “I wasn’t really thinking; I know it’s… I understand why you’re angry.” </p><p>There’s another low growl, but it tapers off into a huff of frustration. “No. <em> I’m </em>sorry. You’re the one who agreed to help me get out of this.” </p><p>For a moment, you’re taken aback, but you let yourself relax, head resting against the wall. “I really do hope you two can reconcile.” Close your eyes. “I know how difficult it is to… to be so hurt that you don’t know what to do anymore.”</p><p>A sound of disgust. “I’m not—”</p><p>“I know how it feels to be unable to compromise with your brother. To not know,” you continue, mouth dry. “To have nobody there to tell you what the right thing is.” Your fingers curl into a fist against the worn, wooden floor. “So you just… act according to your nature.” </p><p>Silence from the other side. Downstairs, faintly, you can hear the sound of someone laughing, and then someone shouting. </p><p>“Belphegor?” Perhaps you’ve made him angry. </p><p>But he answers, lazily drawing out the syllable: “Yeah?”</p><p>A deep breath. “Is it true that you opposed the exchange program? That you were angry?”</p><p>There’s a beat, and then a wry, nasty chuckle. “What of it? Not much I can do about it now, anyway. It’s like I said… there was a misunderstanding, and Lucifer decided the best thing he could do was lock me up where I couldn’t cause trouble.” </p><p>His slow, dark drawl doesn’t fail to draw another chill from your skin. He’s truly the moon to his twin’s sun, you think, and curl yourself tighter, drawing your legs up against the pact mark on your belly. You think of the sorrow on Beel’s face sometimes, of the way he calls “<em>Belphie </em>” after a nightmare. You think of the way the room goes quiet and heavy when the seventh-born’s absence is even implied. You think of the shame buried in Lucifer’s eyes. </p><p>If you can do <em> one </em> good thing here, just <em> one </em>good thing… let it be this. </p><p>“We are what we are,” you say, quietly. “And I do, truly, believe it’s a misunderstanding. I believe even Lucifer regrets this.” </p><p>“If he <em>regretted </em>it—” You can hear the sneer in his voice. “—he’d <em>do</em> <em>something!”</em></p><p>“I don’t think he knows how to fix it.” Fingers drum, lightly, near-soundlessly, upon the floor. “It’s not just that he’s too proud; I think he’s <em> afraid</em>.”</p><p>A sharp hiss. “Don’t mistake Lucifer for a human. He’s a <em> demon</em>, and lately he’s nothing but Diavolo’s cruel lapdog.” </p><p>Rest your head against your knees. “Belphegor, he’s your <em> brother</em>.”</p><p>“If he was interested in being my <em>brother</em>, he should’ve been on <em>my </em>side! But no! He slammed the door in my face and<em> put me away </em>like a bad memory. Like I’m a stain he can <em>hide</em>. One more assignment. An embarrassment. He wouldn’t— He—” His breath rasps under the door. “If Lucifer was interested in being my brother, he wouldn’t <em>leave me!</em>” </p><p>The moment his voice begins to crack, Belphegor falls silent, and you hold your breath, listening; there is no sound at all from the stairs. </p><p>“I’m sorry, Belphegor,” you say, softly, swallowing against the lump in your throat, afraid to speak any louder, lest the ache spill over your cheeks. “And I know that doesn’t mean anything coming from me.” Push yourself into a standing position with creaking knees. “But I will get you out. I <em> will </em> make sure you have the opportunity to see your brothers again.” You press your forehead to the doorframe. “I only have two pacts left.”</p><p>A beat. Two. Three. </p><p>As you move away from the door, there comes a quiet, brusque reply:</p><p>“Then you’d better get on it.” </p><hr/><p>Your DDD is ringing. It’s the violin bridge from “The Devil Went Down to Georgia,” which means it’s Diavolo calling (because you think you’re hilarious. (You are.)). You answer it immediately.</p><p>“Lord Diavolo,” you greet. </p><p>“Ambrose, good afternoon.” He has his “urgent matters” voice on, deep and perfectly measured. “Barbatos has returned with the demon who made the attempt on your life, and she will be tried at midnight, according to custom.”</p><p>There is a pause, and the only thing that comes out of your mouth is “Oh—that’s good.” </p><p>“Yes, I’d say so. You only need attend the trial itself, but if you wish to provide evidence or have a look at her, I want to give you the opportunity. You are, after all, the party most directly wronged.” </p><p><em> Most directly wronged</em>. What a strange way to put it. You haven’t studied anything about the justice system of the Devildom, so it’s possible that there are multiple plaintiffs involved in such a case, or perhaps there was a plot against Solomon’s life as well, making two potential victims. </p><p>“Thank you.” You frown at your open textbook, at the half-written essay on your borrowed laptop. “I… believe I ought to be there. What will happen?”</p><p>“That remains to be seen,” he says. “You may weigh your opinion at any time. Do you wish to see the prisoner before the trial, to be informed of the full charges and evidence?” </p><p>You swallow. “Yes.” </p><p>“Very good. If it’s convenient, I will have Lucifer escort you to the castle immediately.” </p><p>“Let me—” Your throat is suddenly very dry. “Should I wear my uniform?”</p><p>“For the trial, yes, that would be best.”</p><p>Curl your fingers into a tight fist, searching for something to steady your mind. “I’ll get changed now, then, and I’ll be ready.” </p><p>“We’ll see you shortly, Ambrose. Good afternoon.” </p><p>“Good afternoon.” </p><hr/><p>She looks so small. </p><p>Curled in shadow is a humanoid figure resting a tired, shaggy head on bent knees, feet pulled up on a low, stone bench. Brown hair obscures her features, but her frame is thin, draped in a green uniform shirt too large for her slender shoulders. Likewise, the RAD-issue trousers she wears hang loose over clunky boots that seem almost comically big, like those on a child playing grown-up by trying on their father’s shoes. </p><p>Beside the cell stands Barbatos, still as stone himself, one hand behind his back, the other over his abdomen in attentive stance. But he surveys the demon in the cell with an expression that can be described only as <em>unmitigated</em> <em>disgust</em>. </p><p>You’ve never seen anything like that on the steward’s face before, and can’t help but study him in morbid fascination, the hair of your arms threatening to stand on end. His brows are drawn tightly, pinched, the skin of his cheek tensed, threatening to bare his teeth if pulled any tighter. At your shoulder, Lucifer clears his throat, and Barbatos’ face is wiped so clean of malice that the transformation seems quite unnatural, the usual placid smile upon his face hollow, nothing more than a mask. </p><p>But then, he sees you—and the hard, peridot glint of his eyes softens. The smile grows genuine, if strained. </p><p>You try to return the gesture with a proper greeting, but Lucifer is all business: “Is this the one?” </p><p>Anything gentle in the steward’s eyes disappears. “Yes.”</p><p>“How do you know?” A growing disquiet churns your stomach. </p><p>“Oh, it’s <em> you</em>.” </p><p>This time, your hair does stand on end. </p><p>In the cell, the demon is sitting at attention, greyish lips pulling thin in a smirk. “Came to finish it up yourself, eh?” Her eyes are black like pooled ink, hardly any white to smooth the edges, an effect that draws out the nausea in your belly. “You’ve got more spirit than I thought for a filthy human concubine.” </p><p>You open your mouth to reply, but—</p><p>“<strong><em>You’ll not speak unless spoken to, vermin</em>.</strong>” For half a second, you don’t recognize that voice. It’s whip-sharp, low in resonance and dark in tone but you know its measure—it is Barbatos. His face is contorted again into that expression of supreme distaste, but this time, his teeth are bared.</p><p>And it’s at this moment you realize you’ve never seen him show them. All his smiles are tight-lipped, every expression soft and closed. He seldom eats at the same time as the guests at parties, and at tea, partakes with subtle grace in dainty bites. As much as everything else the butler does over the course of a day, it’s clear that this has been by design. </p><p>In harsh contrast with the rest of his features, Barbatos’ teeth are <em> distinctly </em> inhuman. </p><p>This should be no surprise; you’ve seen the brothers’ teeth before. Whether in full delighted grins or snarling aggression, most of the demons have sharp, fang-like canines, exceptionally large bone structure, and varying ranges of bestial ivory. But somehow, this is <em> worse</em>.</p><p>While the rest seem mostly human in appearance, the four canines, the first premolars, and the lateral incisors are all nightmarishly fitted needles, spindly and wicked, gleaming in the low light, razor-sharp. The torchlight catches these teeth like translucent glass, first white, then black-tipped, colors dancing with the flame. They are not teeth so much as perfect, glassen spearheads, thin and blood-chilling, suggestive of precisely what such a creature could destroy and devour.  </p><p>“Barbatos.”</p><p>They wink out of existence, gone again behind lips tightly pursed, tucked into a soft cheek creased in displeasure. There’s a heavy, black-gloved hand on your shoulder, and you latch onto that sensation, find some solid grounding in it, try to once again feel the floor beneath your feet and the air in your lungs. </p><p>“Who is she?” Lucifer continues, his voice low and even. </p><p>With a last, cutting glance at the prisoner, the steward schools himself into a relaxed, professional stance. “Namurta, a demoness of acedia. While attending RAD, she began picking up shifts with Akuzon, and until now, delivered parcels frequently to the palace. She abused that position to easily access the grounds without notice.” He fixes the pale demon under a steely gaze. “Isn’t that right?”</p><p>Namurta grins broadly, wickedly, like she hasn’t a care at all in the world, but she isn’t paying Barbatos any mind; she’s looking at you. “I just had to wait for the right opportunity. It took a while, but I’m patient.” </p><p>Your brow furrows. “Why aren’t you even bothering to deny it?”</p><p>She rolls thin shoulders and the sleeves of her uniform shirt ripple with the movement. “Why should I?” </p><p>“You’ll be convicted.” </p><p>A bark of laughter that rings, hollow, upon the stone. “Nothing I do will change that.”</p><p>“Why?” You glance from the demoness, to Barbatos, to Lucifer. “Has it already been decided?”</p><p>“The trial isn’t to prove her innocent or guilty.” The firstborn’s expression is grim as you face him, his hand slipping from your shoulder. “Guilt is determined very easily, especially when she freely admits to the transgression.”</p><p>“The trial,” the steward continues, “is to decide upon the <em> punishment</em>.” </p><p>In her cell, the demoness rests her head back against the dark stone of the wall and closes her eyes. “None of it really matters.” </p><p>Your stomach turns. “You don’t care what happens?”</p><p>Namurta shrugs. “I never do.” </p><p>“Acedia is an aspect of Sloth,” Lucifer says tersely. “Think of it as a mixture of Sloth and Despair. Not a care for anything: appearance, status, nor even personal comfort.” </p><p>“But…” Your brows knit tightly together, mouth tugging into a frown. It doesn’t make sense. “Why try to—” When you close your eyes, you can see a tarnished spoon, a grim, golden gaze, the flash of teeth. You swallow. “Why try to <em> kill </em> me?” </p><p>You didn’t mean to glance at Barbatos right then, but the <em> anguish </em> that creases his eyes for the briefest moment sends a pang right through your chest, and you can’t look away. It’s <em> too much</em>. It feels like too much grief for this single instance, for just one near-miss, for an afternoon’s averted accident—</p><p>And then it’s gone.</p><p>“Somebody had to.” The demoness is leaning lazily against the silver-etched iron bars; you hadn’t even seen her move. “We’re <em> demons </em> , morsel.” She grins nastily, showing neat, little fangs. “Some of us remember that, even if the <em> princeling </em>doesn’t.” </p><p>
  <em> Crack.  </em>
</p><p>Namurta’s small body lays in a crumpled heap against the back of the cell, and Lucifer’s hand, palm-out where she once stood, still hangs in the air. “That’s enough of that,” he growls, and lowers his arm neatly to his side. </p><p>The static-like effect of magic still crawls on your skin. </p><p>Barbatos, cooly, glances into the cell. “I would have liked to do the honors.” </p><p>The Firstborn’s mouth lifts slowly in a smirk. “I’m sure you’ve done it several times already.” </p><p>Barbatos’ verdant gaze flicks briefly to you. “No more than necessary, I’m sure.” But his unassuming little smile has a fine edge, every bit as sharp as his teeth. </p><hr/><p>The trial takes place in a wing of the Demon Lord’s Castle you’ve never seen before and that you’re sure you’ll never be able to find again. It is unlike the courtrooms you might see on television dramas with their jury boxes, their testimony stands, their lofty judge’s seat. Indeed, this hall has far more in common with a boardroom than any courthouse you’ve ever seen. </p><p>A long, rectangular table dominates the space, its dark, lustrous surface carved from ebony. The intricate etchings across the table’s full face make it clear that the piece was meant for neither dining nor work; it is purely ceremonial. You can’t make out all the details, but it seems to be covered in scrolling depictions of bladed weapons, of creatures bound up in thorns, of clawed hands mid-gesture. Silvery-white moonlight gleams upon the table’s obsidian grain through a crystalline ceiling; the whole room is lit only by the light of the Devildom’s eternally full moon, resting now at the highest point in the sky.</p><p>Thirteen chairs surround the grand table, each upholstered in a different fabric with unique coloration and pattern. The largest, throne-like, sits at the table’s head, draped in red and gold, while six of similar size line either side. To Lord Diavolo’s right sits Lucifer, and upon his left, Barbatos. At Lucifer’s side sits Mammon, then Satan, and across the table to mirror them sit Leviathan, Asmodeus, and Beelzebub. The chair beside Satan, upholstered in purple and silver, remains empty, and you are offered the seat next to it, cushioned with cream-colored satin embroidered in vibrant, lavender thistle whose stems and wicked thorns, twined together one into another, seem to climb slowly up the chair-back. Despite such fine material, the seat is <em> not </em>comfortable, and you believe that’s by design. </p><p>Everyone looks expectantly down the table at Lord Diavolo, who stands now, framed by the high, ebony chair-back inlaid with gold that catches moonlight in gleaming stripes. “We gather in the Midnight Hall to hand down justice from the highest court. In absence of the Demon King, I, Diavolo, Prince of the Devildom and heir to its throne, shall uphold final judgement of the transgressor.” </p><p>“By your might, may our realm be secured, and by your justice, may we be united,” the demons—the <em> dukes—</em>echo. You believe you must not have been expected to join because you were <em> not </em>prepped for this, but still, you fervently hope that being human makes you exempt from any further call-and-response ritual. </p><p>“The transgressor attempted to take the life of a guest in the royal house: a human, Ambrose Tennyson.” You sit up a little straighter as Diavolo’s eyes fall upon you. “You are the party who suffers gravest iniquity, and your word shall be weighted in kind. Yours is the word that shall be held second only to my own, and what punishment you recommend shall be heard by mine ear and shall be made into justice.”</p><p>Your hands are sweating profusely where they are folded in your lap. This isn’t your business, really, is it? Nothing should be left up to you, <em> nothing</em>. You’re <em> no one</em>. You don’t know what punishment this demon should serve and it’s foolhardy to presume that you would know better than those gathered at this table, who are familiar with the law. </p><p>You’re sure now… you shouldn’t be doing this. You ought to be here, but for the decision to fall on <em> you—</em></p><p>“The next who suffers injury is the Crown, insulted by disregard in extremis for both a royal guest of the Devildom and the royal will. This is treason.” </p><p>As though he can sense your nerves, Satan glances across the empty seat to meet your eyes. Direct as ever, he had been sure to take you aside before the doors were opened. He told you that you can forfeit your judgement if you don’t wish to speak; you don’t <em> have </em> to participate, but he advised against what he termed “throwing away your voice.” </p><p>But it’s not throwing away your voice at all, is it? It’s conceding that you don’t know what to do. That the decision isn’t yours to make. </p><p>“I shall hear the voices of the council.”</p><p><em> Treason? </em> You can’t be expected to judge someone for <em> treason</em>.</p><p>“May our words be fire and flame.” There’s a question in Satan’s eyes as he sounds the phrase with the others. You respond with the slightest shake of your head. He inclines his in answer.</p><p>“Should anyone present deem that their voice, for any reason, shall fall short of this task, let them speak now and forfeit the weight of their word.” </p><p>Your stomach feels like a yawning void that has decided to devour itself, but you curl your fingers tightly in your lap and find the breath to use the one phrase you were given: “May my word be considered but a whisper beside the roar of flame.”</p><p>All the energy leaves the room like a gale sweeping the plains, leaving a lingering, deafening silence. </p><p>“But—” starts Beelzebub, and Asmodeus pinches him roughly while Mammon and Leviathan seem too gobsmacked to even move. </p><p>Lord Diavolo opens his mouth and closes it, fingertips spread across the table’s elaborate surface. Barbatos, beside him, studies you openly, a deep crease between his brows, a fervent question in the tilt of his head. Lucifer, on the other side, seems perfectly composed, solemnly interested but not surprised; perhaps, in the dungeon, he’d seen the start of it all, had realized it was coming. Did he know that Satan would give you the key that you needed? </p><p>At last, the prince fixes you under his golden gaze again. “Because you are a stranger to our customs, I will ask that you demonstrate your understanding of what you have just invoked. Once done, it cannot be undone; you will lose any say you might have in what judgement is passed upon the transgressor. You will not have any influence over what punishment this demon—<em>the demon who attempted to end your life</em>—will receive. Rise.”</p><p>Swallowing hard, you do, ignoring the faint tremble in your knees and fingertips. You square your jaw, and meet Lord Diavolo’s eyes, desperately ignoring the confusion you can still, in the corner of your gaze, see on Barbatos’ face. “It is because I am a stranger to your customs that I feel my judgement would be inadequate.” Choose your words precisely, formally; this you can do. It is a small comfort. “I cannot allow my word to be weighted more heavily than those who are familiar with your law, and I will trust the court to handle fairly the case in question.” A slow, deep breath. “May my word be considered but a whisper beside the roar of flame.” </p><p>Lord Diavolo’s mouth becomes a grim line. “It is done.” He looks at the table’s ebony surface, considering, then again at you. “You may be seated.” </p><p>Relieved, you sit a little less gracefully than you would have liked. </p><p>“Bring forth the transgressor.” The prince’s voice rings sharply through the chamber.</p><p>The double-doors swing open, and Namurta is marched through by a bullish demon almost as large as Beelzebub, dressed in overlapping plates of dark, leathery armor studded with gold. He holds his massive head high, taurine eyes looking down a thick nose at the demoness, who, though unbound, makes no move to run. A gold ring pierces his septum. </p><p>Together, the new arrivals take their places standing at the end of the table opposite Lord Diavolo… and though an empty chair separates you from the pale demoness who looks no more apologetic now than she did in her dungeon cell, it seems rather too close to you for comfort,</p><p>“My lords, I bring you the transgressor, Namurta, Demoness of Acedia,” rumbles the guard. “Citizen of the Devildom, Traitor and Conspirator.” </p><p>Deep-set black eyes move to meet yours and you immediately look away, hair on the back of your neck prickling. </p><p>“The balance of the case has changed.” The prince folds his arms across his broad chest, the medal on his uniform clinking softly in the chamber’s silence. “It shall not be the word of the human whose death you intended that bends my ear in this matter.” </p><p>The demoness’ mouth curls as she glances from you to Lord Diavolo and back. And then, she laughs. A small, tittering thing that grows in strength until the sound echoes off the stone walls, rings against the glass ceiling. </p><p>Though the sound grates upon your ears, no one else at the table looks remotely impressed.</p><p>“The single person in this court who might have been inclined to show you mercy gave up their word, and you find it amusing?” Lucifer drawls, not bothering to face the prisoner completely, glancing only from the corner of his ruby eyes. </p><p>“Don’t you wonder,” adds the prince, “whose word it will be that takes their place?”</p><p>Though Namurta’s laughter subsides, her grin does not falter. “It doesn’t matter to me either way.” </p><p>A slow, unsettling smile starts on Lord Diavolo’s lips, one you haven’t seen before. “It should.” He rolls his shoulders. “You see, it is true that when you attempted to poison Ambrose, the human was a guest in my home. But at that time, they were not in the palace as <em> my </em> guest.” The smirk now firmly settled on his face harkens to some primal mischief that reads <em> danger </em> you can feel down to your bones. “They were <em> Barbatos’ </em>guest.” </p><p>Any expression at all drains from the demoness’ face. “Well.” Her eyes drift over to the duke in question, who levels his gaze without changing from his usual, distant expression. “It’s the loyal steward’s word then... maybe the human isn’t as stupid as they look.” Coal-black eyes settle on you. “If you wanted me dead, you could’ve at least said it yourself, but maybe you didn’t want to get your hands dirty? Humans are—” She bares her little, pointed fangs. “—<em>funny </em> about that.” </p><p><em> Dead? </em> You don’t want anyone <em> dead; </em>can a demon even die, properly die, without—</p><p>“You’re one to talk, using poison to try to kill a single human,” Satan says coldly. “Were you afraid you couldn’t take them on directly?” </p><p>“Of course I can take a <em> human</em>.” Namurta’s laissez-faire nature starts seeping back into her voice, into the slope of her shoulders. “It’s running into her pact-mates I was worried about. I’m not stupid enough to fight Hell’s duchy directly.” Her eyes rove over your form again. “And may I say, what the most powerful demons in the realm could possibly want from such an insignificant creature, I can’t understand; are there no more interesting pets around?” </p><p>“You <em>may</em> <b><em>not</em></b>,” snaps Mammon, sudden and harsh enough for you to jump. “We gonna let her talk like that?”</p><p>"Let her talk," says Barbatos. It's the first you've heard him speak alone since the trial began. "It's all she can do." There is no polite, placid smile on his face now. There is nothing at all. "But, if you would prefer, she can be silenced." </p><p>He says it like it’s no more trouble than bringing a carafe of water. </p><p>“Do the incubi and succubi not provide enough variety?” Namurta continues, sounding disinterested. “Maybe my lords are just <em> bored</em>.” </p><p>“<em>Maybe</em>,” purrs Asmo, a dark look in his eye that doesn’t match the sweet smile on his lips, “you should find something worth saying before my brother does shut you up.” </p><p>Your discomfort isn’t mere nerves anymore, it’s <em> irritation</em>, it’s thinly veiled disgust, it’s—</p><p>You frown, and concentrate on the feelings, try to trace them back to a thought or an object, but it’s as though they’re separate from you entirely; you can feel them, but it’s like… like someone set a box on your lap, a box with something <em> alive </em>in it that you can neither see nor touch, but that you can feel each time it moves. </p><p>The feelings aren’t yours at all. </p><p>And they’re a <em> mess</em>. It would take time to extricate what belongs to whom, and that’s time you just don’t—</p><p>“Nothing I say is going to change your mind, so I might as well say what I’m thinking.” </p><p>"Why do you keep <em> saying </em> that?" you snap.</p><p>It's everyone else's turn to be surprised. Even Namurta’s glossy eyes seem curious. </p><p>"You actually don't know what this is, do you?" she asks with a delighted sneer. “There are only a set number of punishments that come out of the Midnight Court, and I went after a pet the prince sanctioned; what do <em> you </em> think is going to happen?” </p><p>Some form of realization must show on your face because Lord Diavolo takes his seat at last with a sigh. “This is <em> blood court</em>,” he says, almost apologetically. “And I shall hear the voices of the council.” </p><p>“May our words be fire and flame.” </p><p>Your heart sinks like a stone and the air ripples with magic, sparking, energy pressing through your skin as your pact marks sing all at once with electricity: Leviathan’s curving rune along your spine, Beelzebub’s sun-sigil over your stomach, the gold and silver rings that mirror Mammon's upon your fingers, the rose-colored seal in the hollow of your hip. Every demon at the table is suddenly transformed into a truer shape—and for half a moment, you feel a bit left out, still very human, still in your RAD uniform. Any power you had in this room, you’ve already thrown away. Your throat tightens. </p><p>"I propose the highest punishment." Lucifer’s voice is measured and dark. "Let's make the example and be done with it." </p><p>“Seconded,” grumbles Mammon, shooting a sidelong glare at Namurta, who remains passive and unflinching. </p><p>Surely they can’t—they wouldn’t— </p><p>“Wipe her from existence,” agrees Satan, head resting comfortably on the chair’s cushion. He looks at you from the corner of his eye, brow arched, as if daring you to disagree. Daring you now that you have no say at all. </p><p><em> I told you so</em>, his emerald gaze reads. </p><p>Fingers curl, tight, in your lap, digging into the quilted fabric of your uniform coat. Your jaw creaks as you bite back any argument. How could you have done this? </p><p>“Yeah. I need to be up in the morning for a livestream,” Leviathan muses, and you realize with no small amount of surprise that he’s not wearing the strange garb that normally fits his demon form at all… he’s wearing another uniform. It’s sharply cut in old, military fashion, double-breasted, with brass buttons and a decided flair for the dramatic, but unmistakably—must be—a symbol of his naval rank. “So let’s do it quick. If you’re ready to kill somebody, you’ve gotta be ready to die, and I don’t think she’s arguing.” </p><p>It’s so easy to forget. They’re <em> demons</em>. They’ve been to <em> war</em>. This must be nothing for them, but for <em> you—</em></p><p>Asmodeus smiles nastily, yet still, each plane and shadow of his face is painfully handsome. “Well, <em> I’m </em> certainly not going to argue.” He half-reclines in the chair. “When you threaten <em> us</em>, you don’t get to just walk away.” </p><p>No, you can’t have <em> this </em> on your conscience, not this. Your palms are cold, sweat-slick, nails faintly grinding against finely-woven cotton. You couldn’t be expected to judge a traitor, and there has to be justice, but surely there’s allowance for <em> mercy </em> somewhere; Namurta didn’t successfully kill you. This isn’t—</p><p>“Wait…” Beelzebub’s gaze darts around the table. “Aren’t we going to let Ambrose say anything at all?” </p><p>Lord Diavolo sets his shoulders. “The human gave up their right to sway my decision.” His chair-back, you had noticed, seemed to taper unusually in the middle, and now you realize it was to make way for both sets of his large, leathery wings. “They may speak, but I will not hear it.” </p><p>Beel's eyes, so like cut opal, warm and indigo, are sad, the weight of his attention entirely too heavy on your shoulders. “You don’t want us to kill her,” he observes, slowly. “But she tried to kill you.” </p><p>You can feel the demoness staring at you now, intently, but you don’t look. You swallow, hard, and hope your voice remains steady: “Yes.” </p><p>Something changes in the air, eases the tension from resolute to incredulous. </p><p>“Why?”</p><p>It isn’t Beelzebub who asks, but Barbatos, and you find his face still carefully blank, not a single scrap of emotion, no impression to be scrounged from even the smallest tilt of his head or minute twitch of muscle. Nothing. </p><p>You glance from the steward to Lord Diavolo, and the prince shakes his head very slightly.</p><p>“You may speak,” he says. “But you cannot sway <em> me</em>.” </p><p>Ah. You dip your head in a solemn nod, close your eyes, try to gather your thoughts. Diavolo can’t be influenced by anything you say, but that doesn’t mean you won’t be heard by anyone at all. Open your eyes and find that Barbatos hasn’t so much as moved in the meantime, every hair still in place, skeletal wings perched like horns shadowing his forehead, expression still perfectly impassive. </p><p>Take a slow, deep breath. “She didn’t actually hurt me.”</p><p>The faintest arch of his brow reads recognition. But the turn of his mouth is unimpressed. “She intended to do much more than that—she <em> attempted </em> much more than that.”</p><p>“Yes,” you concede, searching for anything that might tell you what he’s thinking, reaching for any indication at all that <em> he </em> might hear, might be moved. “But I don’t see any reason she should… be <em> executed </em> when her target is still right here.” </p><p>There’s a flash of something in Barbatos’ eyes, the wink of a predator’s gaze in the dark, a lamp in the crushing depths of the sea that brings you in close without ever illuminating the waiting rows of jagged teeth. “It’s not simply execution.” His voice is soft, measured. “The most severe punishment, the one Lucifer invoked and his brothers have motioned forward, is erasure from this reality. Namurta, Demoness of Acedia, Traitor and Conspirator, would be wiped from existence.” </p><p>They can’t—they <em> can’t</em>, can they? It’s not possible. It can’t be possible. <em> Shouldn’t </em> be possible for anyone to have such a power, except—</p><p>Steady your breaths. Steady. <em> Think</em>. “Wouldn’t—wouldn’t that be paradoxical? If she didn’t exist, she couldn’t have attempted to poison me; she wouldn’t be here now.” </p><p>“You misunderstand,” says Satan. “This is how demons are destroyed. If you were to kill Namurta, she would die, yes, but she’d begin a process of reconstitution. It would take several millennia, depending on her power, but she would return eventually.” </p><p>“She will simply be lifted from this point in the timeline and face destruction outside it.” The steward’s chin rests upon white-gloved hand, between thumb and forefinger. “Removing her has no paradoxical effect.” </p><p>Your mouth opens, closes. “You <em> can’t</em>.” Fingers tighten against one another; nails etch crescents into your skin. “Please.” Steady breaths. Where are all your words now? Barbatos is sitting across the table like a perfect stranger, poised and cold. “It’s too severe.” How can he do this, after blaming <em> himself </em> so harshly? “The punishment should fit the crime; that’s how justice works, isn’t it?”</p><p>And then, the slightest softness in his face, just visible at the corners of his eyes. “You forgive too easily,” he repeats the words he’d sent only days ago.</p><p>Well, perhaps you do; perhaps you <em> should</em>. </p><p>“Barbatos… you were there to prevent her plan from succeeding; she shouldn’t die while I’m alive.”</p><p>Quiet. His gaze falls to the table, navigates the twining images engraved in ebony. “And if I had not been there?” he asks, voice even, steady, and then—the questions fall too quickly for you to even dream of answering. “If I had chosen a different tea? If I had no need to stir your cup? If she had chosen a different poison? If she had the foresight to switch my silver? If she had poisoned the tart instead?” His brow draws a tight, severe line. “No.” He fixes you in his gaze, sharp, and the <em> pain </em> in it pins you to your place. “If there are a thousand ways she succeeds and I’m able to prevent her just once, does that single relief outweigh every transgression? Ambrose, you have <em> one</em>, <em> mortal life</em>. I suggest you value it more highly.” </p><p><em> How many times? </em> How many times has he rolled this situation over in his mind and fixated on every detail? No harm had come to you, yet he speaks as if you’d died there, as if he counts it as a personal failure, as if the mere danger of death is enough reason to condemn another life. Is this a flaw of immortality, that everything transient seems so frail by comparison, that you’ve lived so long you’re weighed down by the memory of everything that has passed before, that you find it impossible to just live, to let things <em> be? </em></p><p>Your throat feels hot, the familiar prickle of tears starting behind your eyes. “Please,” you try again. “I value <em> her </em> life, too.” A deep breath, slow, steady, and it seems the rest of the chamber isn’t breathing at all. You swallow against the tears, desperately willing them not to manifest, not to fall. “I am here. I am here, <em> right now</em>, in this moment. Namurta never succeeded in harming me. I’m not asking for her to be free; I’m asking that you spare her life because I still have mine.” </p><p>His gaze wavers, just for a moment, straying to Lord Diavolo—but you don’t look away, don’t see what might pass over the prince’s face—before settling upon you again, and you can only hope. </p><p>“<em>Please</em>.”</p><p>His eyes take on that eerie quality of immense depth, and your stomach turns, like looking into a hall of endless mirrors reflecting one into another on and on and on forever as the refractions take on a deeper and deeper tinge of green, blue-green in a fine sheen, a firth, seeing straight to the bottom but never finding it as it goes on and on and down—</p><p>Barbatos blinks, slowly, and you sigh a trembling breath. </p><p>“I will speak,” he says, and there’s familiarity in his expression that the formality of his measured speech belies, “so that my lord may hear.”</p><p>Your heart beats painfully against your ribs.</p><p>“I offer a punishment for this transgression counter to what the Council has recommended.” </p><p>“Rise, then,” says the prince, “and make it.”</p><p>The steward obeys, and turns to face him. “After thorough consideration, I ask that the transgressor be served <em> Peine Forte et Dure</em>.*” Lord Diavolo arches a brow in interest, and Barbatos folds his hands neatly behind his back. “Namurta is not only a Traitor but a Conspirator—one who has not yet named her fellows. Time within the dungeons should prove more fruitful for the Crown than execution… her efforts, after all, never made it to fruition. Allow her to live, and she will have to watch your plans unfold and see for certain that her judgement was unfounded. Allow her to live, and she becomes another building block in the unprecedented future you have planned.” </p><p>He gives you a glance from the corner of his eye, gentle. The tears, yet unfallen, threaten to spill again, and you close your eyes against them.</p><p>Lord Diavolo responds with a short, slow nod, head tilted, considering. Moonlight catches upon the gold that adorns his curved horns. “You may be seated, Duke Barbatos.” </p><p>He gives a formal bow, arm crossed over his chest, and sits. </p><p>“Does any member of the Council take issue with the claims brought forward?” </p><p>No one speaks.</p><p>Another nod. “Namurta, do you have anything at all to say?”</p><p>The demoness flinches, like she’s been caught eavesdropping. Her coal-black eyes flit to you, mouth twisted in a strange line, but she doesn’t speak. She only shakes her head.</p><p>The prince hums. “Very well.” He rises from his chair, silver light dancing upon his features, shadows playing upon his skin. “Namurta, Demon of Acedia, Citizen of the Devildom, Traitor and Conspirator, I sentence you to <em> Peine Forte et Dure</em>. You shall be subjected to tortures deemed fitting of your transgressions for as many years as there were possible consequences of your actions.” He folds his arms across his dark chest. “You have been shown mercy in the Midnight Court, not because you are deserving, but as a symbol of the coming era of peace.” The corner of his mouth sneaks up in a devious smile. “Congratulations; you are now part of that future you tried to prevent, part of my dream for our realm.” His incisors, sharp on the top and bottom, are bared. “Do think on that until we meet again for the appeal in about two millennia.” </p><p><em> Two-thousand </em> years of torture. You’re not sure that’s a <em> mercy, </em> per se, but she is alive. </p><p>With a flick of two fingers, Lord Diavolo extends his hand toward Namurta, who stands stiff and pale. “As my word is my bond, this judgement is final; may the sentence be your brand, the word you must keep.” </p><p>His magic feels like the burn of pepper, harsh and sharp, flickering in the air, and the demoness splutters, shoulders twisting. The hissing sound of sizzling flesh rolls your stomach, but it stops as quickly as it started, and Namurta stands with her head bowed, lips pulled back in a grimace, a seal seared into her cheek and jaw. It's a double-ring containing a pentagram, distorted in some way you can't define as your eyes refuse to register the paths properly; in its center is a rune, a diamond twisted and broken open. In each of the five outer chambers is an alchemical symbol, and these you recognize: fire, sulfur, silver, salt, and iron. Between the two rings is a script you cannot read—the ancient language of demons. </p><p>"Penance is paid with blood," declares the Council.</p><p>Lord Diavolo flexes the fingers that cast the spell, and returns them to the crook of his arm. "Remove her to the dungeons.” The bullish guard bows, and leads Namurta through the double-doors. “With debts in repayment, this session of the Midnight Court is adjourned.” </p><p>Your stomach is in knots but your fingers untangle themselves slowly, stiffly, and you stifle a hiss as nails unstick from the deep crevices they’ve dug in your skin. <em> Torture </em> for <em> two-thousand years</em>. No human could withstand such a thing for even a fraction of that time, but a demon, surely, could make it without… </p><p>As the scrape of chairs on stone makes itself known, Satan leans across Belphagor’s empty seat, a small, terrible smile on his lips. “I try not to relish being the one to say <em> I told you </em>. But you did quite well even after stabbing yourself in the back.” </p><p>You swallow, feeling your heart clench. <em> Two-thousand years</em>. You’ll be long, long dead by the time she sees freedom and comfort again. “You were right.” </p><p>The smile shrinks, brows peak. “Are you… all right?” </p><p>“Yes, I’m fine.” You start rubbing the feeling back into your fingers, gently, one at a time, kneading away the stinging sensation in each depression left by your nails. “I just have a lot to think about.”</p><p>His eyes flick to your lap, brow furrowing further. “I don’t believe—”</p><p>“Ambrose.” Barbatos stands at your left shoulder, his usual mood seemingly restored, and just past him you can see Mammon blinking rapidly, mouthing opening and closing indignantly.</p><p>“HOW DID—”</p><p>“May I?” he asks, his faint smile just a little broader as he gestures to your chair. </p><p>“Oh…” you let your hands settle for the moment. “Thank you.” </p><p>The steward pulls the chair smoothly away from the table, and when you stand, he gives a short, graceful bow. “I would speak with you, if I may.” </p><p>Your chest still feels tight, caught somewhere between guilt and relief. “Of course.” Surely hearing a torture sentence passed shouldn’t feel like a consolation. And yet… in comparison to what might have been...</p><p>Intently, he holds your gaze. “Do you find the results of the trial satisfactory?”</p><p>Sigh, and rub your hands together again, ignoring the ache. That is a question you’re curious to know the answer to, yourself. “I’m grateful that she still has her life.” </p><p>“But…?” There’s the smallest crease between his brows. </p><p>You blink. “But?”</p><p>His gaze does not waver. “But are you satisfied?” </p><p>Close your eyes a moment, and consider. “I… suppose it doesn’t matter.” Your body is very, very heavy all of the sudden. “I count myself fortunate that you chose to listen to me at all after I gave up my right to speak.”</p><p>The crease deepens. “It <em> does </em> matter. I doubt you would have forgiven me had I demanded her life.” Barbatos’ eyes are grave, searching your face. “You would not have forgotten it.” </p><p>Your teeth catch the inside of your cheek, unsure how to answer. It’s nice to think you would have been able to forgive him, especially since you brought this all on yourself by refusing to act. If they had chosen to execute Namurta anyway, they would have only been following tradition, adhering to the demands of their system. “Everyone acts according to their nature.” Even the Demoness of Acedia herself. “I can’t fault anyone for that.” </p><p>“You are generous,” he says, the lines on his face smoothing, and you find your cheeks warming at the compliment phrased so plainly, like a simple fact. “Your time might be better spent with angels, but perhaps you’d let me offer you some tea and keep your company a while longer before you depart?” </p><p>“Now wait just a minute!” snaps Mammon against a valiant attempt from Asmodeus to keep him quiet. “We’re goin’ home!”</p><p>You sigh, a ‘well, what can you do?’ half-smile catching your mouth as you glance from Mammon, to Barbatos, who subtly radiates exasperation without even a single twitch of his brow, to Lucifer on the other side of the table with Diavolo. Lucifer catches your eye with his stately gaze and, refolding the first set of feathered wings over his shoulders, nods.</p><p>You smile properly at Barbatos. “It would be my pleasure.” </p><p>The little smile reaches his verdant eyes this time, and he offers his arm. </p><p>“Luciferrrrr—!”</p><p>“Thank you.” And, as easily and habitually as waking in the morning, you fold your arm with his. The jacket is different, of course, with satin sleeves and pleated ruffles spilling at the wrists like seafoam, but you fit just the same. </p><p>“You needn’t.” There’s a crease at the edge of his eyes, teasing, and his gaze flicks down to where your hand rests on his wrist for just a moment—</p><p>He frowns.</p><p>“What is this?” Barbatos asks, low, urgent, unfolding his arm and taking up your hand instead.</p><p>You follow his gaze and… oh. In all fairness, it looks much worse than it feels. The crescent-moon welts are an angry red, purpling at the center. They cover your fingers haphazardly, some larger, some smaller, some deeper than others, but no skin is broken. Your hands ache, the welts do sting in a pattern like pins-and-needles, and the muscles are a bit stiff, but it’ll be nothing but little, red marks in the morning, and they’ll be completely gone in another day or so, you’re sure. </p><p>The urge to hide your other hand behind your back is thwarted when he takes it up, too. Your face feels hot. “It’s nerves.” You swallow, mouth dry. “I had my hands clasped together. It… looks worse than I thought, but it doesn’t hurt the way you think it does.”</p><p>This pair of gloves feels like silk as he brushes a thumb lightly over the marks across your knuckles, and turns your hands gently to examine the palms, which fared rather better. His mouth is drawn in a tight line. “I apologize,” he says, softly. </p><p>Your heart aches a little, brow creases. “I did it to myself.” </p><p>“Will you allow me to treat them?” His fingers, satin-smooth, take inventory of your skin. It’s so at odds with his fearsome displays this evening that you can hardly connect one with the other, the demon who called for blood and this demon who asks to ease a small pain. </p><p>Barbatos’ gaze is soft, the calm of a river where a raging sea might have been.</p><p><em> You have one, mortal life</em>. </p><p><em> My friend</em>. </p><p>You catch two of his gloved fingers between yours. “Yes.”</p><p>That’s the connection; the connection is <em> you</em>. Demons are almost purely emotional creatures, running hot and cold from one moment to the next, fiercely defending and exalting over anything of importance. And you—</p><p>You’ve somehow become someone who matters. </p><p>There are tears threatening your eyes again, but you can’t bring yourself to mind this time. “Thank you.” </p><p>“There is no need.” He smiles. “I am at your service.” </p><hr/><p>“And they actually let her live?” Belphegor’s voice is laced with incredulity. </p><p>You’re facing the door this time, cross-legged on the thin carpet that covers the stone floor. Lucifer isn't around, so you're not worried about being caught. You’ve memorized his schedule to make sure these visits are possible; you can only approach the door when the firstborn is at the palace aiding Lord Diavolo with business or staying late at RAD after classes to catch up on paperwork. The guilt of it always sits like a stone in your stomach. </p><p>“Yes. It’s a heavy sentence even so, but—”</p><p>“Why would Barbatos listen to <em> you? </em>” His silhouette shows through the paper screen which accents the door’s stencil-cut design, restless, turning on his heel before slumping against the door. </p><p>There’s a softness in your chest, a surety to your reply: “Because we’ve become friends.” </p><p>A nasty scoff clicks in his throat. “Barbatos doesn’t have <em> friends;</em> he has a <em> master</em>.” </p><p>You sit up a little straighter. “He does take his duty very seriously, and I respect that.” A frown tugs at your lips, though he can’t see. “But it doesn’t mean he can’t have friends, Belphegor.” </p><p>“No… but he only has one loyalty and that’s to Diavolo.” He nods, slow and exaggerated, hair making a rustling sound against wood and paper. “I get it now. What <em> the butler </em> did wasn’t for you. Diavolo doesn’t want his exchange students upset; that might ruin his project, and he couldn’t do anything about it himself because you decided you didn’t want the responsibility—<em>but </em> his guard dog could. So Barbatos did.” </p><p>Take a deep breath to offset the sting, to calm the knee-jerk anger stirring hot in your blood. He’s frustrated and lashing out. He's not intentionally targeting you. “Did you know her?”</p><p>“What?” His tone is heavy and flat.</p><p>Unfold your legs and tuck one under the other. “Namurta. Did you know her?”</p><p>His head turns slightly, face in profile. “Not personally.” </p><p>There’s something off in the air, the taste of words that don’t add up quite properly. Belphegor had answered right away, yes, and without inflection. But there’s a whisper behind your ribs that says his words are not quite true. </p><p>However, that’s his business. If knowing Namurta is why he’s reacting so strongly to all of this… well, you can’t blame him.</p><p>"I'm still sorry for what happened."</p><p>Belphegor’s silhouette moves from profile to front, fixated on the door as though he could see through it. "...you know she tried to kill you, right?"</p><p>Rub a tired hand over your eyes. "Yes."</p><p>"Has anybody told you that you're an <em> idiot?"</em></p><p>"Ha!" You can't help but laugh, full and genuine. "Not in so many words, no, but that seems to be the general consensus." </p><p>"Good." There's a begrudging smile in his voice. "Somebody ought to tell you."</p><p>Despite all his bitterness, once he gets out, once he reconciles with Lucifer and you can get to know him properly, you really think you'll like Belphie. He reminds you of someone back home. </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>*French for “hard and forceful punishment.” A method of torture used in the common law legal system from around the 13th to 17th centuries, usually used on a defendant who refused to enter a plea; they would be punished until they either entered one or died. Depending on the era, this punishment could vary from deplorable prison conditions with little food or water to a form of torture called “pressing.”</p><p>For this chapter, I did a good bit of of research on ancient, medieval, renaissance, and 20th century court systems across the world... I blended some of this with some of that and shook it all up with some things I thought would make sense for the Devildom's society. We'll call this "anything canon hasn't handed to me is Free Real Estate" method. Hopefully what I've presented works for you, too!</p><p>I nearly forgot to mention, that Barbatos' teeth here are heavily based on those of the fangtooth moray. Very pretty, but also a dash of nightmare fuel.</p>
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<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Part III: The Apportioner</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>I know this was originally meant to be three parts, but I've had to split this chapter into two because it's HUGE. And! Having a fourth chapter will actually help re-enforce my themes--a happy accident!</p><p>My heartfelt thanks as always to Hylla, Tan, Pibs, and Tia for their unwavering support, energy, and brilliant suggestions, and, of course, my thanks as well to all of you lovely readers... have a safe and Happy New Year! </p><p><b>Warning in this chapter for:</b> blood, graphic description of injury<br/> <br/><b>Lachesis - the second of the three Fates, measurer of the thread spun on Clotho's spindle, and in some texts, determines Destiny, or thread of life</b></p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You can add Belphegor’s assessment of Barbatos’ actions to the list of “things that should probably bother you but don’t," mostly because what the demon said is, in part, likely true. You understand diplomacy, duty, and the difficult position Lord Diavolo is no doubt in more often than he would ever admit; you know how seriously Barbatos takes his duties and his loyalty to the prince. </p><p>But you know, too, that no matter what part Lord Diavolo’s will played in what happened at the trial, it does not erase your influence upon Barbatos’ decision. Words spoken in a vindictive fit of frustration or grief, even Belphegor's, don’t easily creep under your skin—not when affirmation is so easily at your fingertips.</p><p><b> <em>Barbatos:</em> </b> <em> My friend, would you like to come to the palace for tea this afternoon? I find myself free for the evening.  </em></p><p>You send the most excitable looking "yes" you can find, a demon done in fluorescent shades. </p><p><b> <em>You:</em> </b> <em> I'd be absolutely delighted as always.  </em></p><p>He responds with a happy sticker, and whether it happens only once more or another hundred, you don't think you'll ever be able to shake the glow of triumph that manifests in your chest. </p><hr/><p>"I don't think you've ever been free for an afternoon," you muse, looking out through the balcony’s wide, marbled slats. The afternoon light is pleasantly green over the garden, gracing the faintly gothic skyline of the capitol, adorning the dark forests beyond. "What's the occasion?"</p><p>"None in particular," Barbatos says, kneeling at your side, neatly arranging dishes on a set of three wooden trays. </p><p>The balcony is just off a solar on the third floor, broad enough for a small family to take their meal, but it’s just you and Barbatos enjoying the warm, summery breeze, seated upon a plush carpet spread over the stone floor. You still can’t quite believe how <em> soft </em> it is, almost more comfortable than a sofa, the texture under your fingers fine as rabbit’s fur, woven in such a precise, complex pattern that it creates a sensory stimulation you can’t name. </p><p>"I delegated some of my tasks to the staff and it opened a portion of my schedule." Barbatos bows over the place settings, hands working methodically, the long tail of his uniform coat spread upon the stone behind him. </p><p>You watch as he arranges your tray with a cedar-shaped tea bowl, slightly tapered toward the bottom, and a simple, terracotta plate. “You don’t normally delegate tasks?”</p><p>“I seldom find a reason to; I enjoy my work.” Once the extraneous dishes are removed from the center tray, he shifts a red-purple clay teapot—one you suspect is Yixing, from the human world, or a very close imitation—away from the covered plate beside it. “And idleness leaves the mind open to wander.”</p><p>“Unpleasantly?” </p><p>The edges of his eyes soften, but he doesn’t take his gaze from the tea setting; the single lock of hair that fades from faintly iridescent green to turquoise brushes his cheek as he leans forward. “If one is not careful.” Barbatos tugs briskly at the fingertips of one glove, stripping off the linen to reveal a slender, pale hand, and you’re not ashamed to say you’re surprised and captivated—quite surprised to note that his nails are almost the same shade of purple as the dye painting the undertones of your hair, captivated by the simple fact that you’ve never seen him without gloves before. “But, all one needs to stave off idle thoughts is a way to occupy the time,” he looks up and smiles, softly, cheeks faintly rosy, “and you have graced me with your company.” </p><p>The tips of your ears are <em> very </em>warm. And you most definitely have a ridiculous look on your face. </p><p>Fortunately, you don’t have to come up with something to say, because Barbatos takes the opportunity to gesture to the teapot with his bare, graceful hand. “I did not brew the tea in advance today, because its properties begin to decay mere minutes after the water is saturated.” He extends his forefinger and, lightly, smoothly, traces the shape of a rune on the teapot’s curved side, and you find yourself fixating on the rich color of his nail, puzzling. If you’d had to guess before seeing them, you would have supposed that his nails would be turquoise or green, as the Brothers’ nails, largely, seem to naturally compliment their palette (except, of course, for Asmodeus, who paints his so often that you’re not sure of their natural color). There’s a ripple of magic in the air, a sparking sensation, small enough that you might not notice if you weren’t waiting for it. </p><p>"Fire?" you guess, though the shape didn't look quite right. </p><p>"Heat." He rises gracefully to his feet, not requiring the use of his arms at all for an extra boost or to keep himself steady as you might. "Three minutes, twenty-six seconds now to boil, and then five minutes to brew." There's a hint of mischief in the verdance of his eyes. "Plenty of time." Your heart stutters in your chest as he tucks his glove into his pocket, fingers playing against the material, such an easily closable distance from your cheek as his gaze lingers upon you, and, for a moment, you think he might— </p><p>But then, Barbatos takes his seat across from you on the carpet, mouth curved in its usual serene, knowing smile. “Today’s blend is Asphodel’s Dance, made from flowers you might be familiar with in the Human World—which do grow here naturally, as your old poets claimed—blended with a particular tree-root native only to the Devildom.” He leans forward to remove the lid of a little terracotta dish beside the teapot to reveal dry, off-white petals curled upon themselves and dull-yellow fragments of thick, woody roots. Among both is a sprinkling of dark, crumbling leaves. “The base is a ceylon hybrid successfully grown in our soil, and the root—from a tree commonly known as crawling bardane—was actually harvested from our own castle garden.” </p><p>The water in the teapot begins to whisper, slowly approaching a boil.</p><p>“That’s fantastic!” You love when ingredients are local, and the castle garden is certainly as local as it gets. “What does it look like; have I seen it already?” </p><p>Barbatos’ veridian eyes gleam, his shoulders tilting just a little, and you get the overwhelming feeling of proper mischief. “You will.” The whisper in the pot becomes a dull roar, and Barbatos wipes away the invisible rune with two outstretched fingers. “The magic in the root is activated easily but decays quickly. When the tree is healthy and still in the ground, magical energies allow it to become far more mobile than other plants. When necessary, the crawling bardane will uproot itself enough to settle in more nutrient-rich soil or find a less-shaded area in which to replant.” He replaces his glove in a sharp, practiced movement, tugging at the wrist to straighten it, and removes the lid of the teapot. “However, the tree can also be coaxed into movement.” He measures out three teaspoons of the blend and adds them to the pot. “If watered excessively, the roots will bring themselves to the surface in order to dry.” He replaces the lid, steam curling in fine whorls on either side as it settles into place. “It takes approximately two hours of saturation for the tree to decide that it has had quite enough to drink.” </p><p>Barbatos sits back, plants his hands upon his thighs, and meets your gaze with a small smile creasing the corner of his eyes. “Now… we have four minutes, forty-eight seconds until the tea is ready.” He gestures toward the balcony’s edge. “Look into the garden, but do not stand to approach the railing.” </p><p>Your brow furrows, head tilts, but he just smiles and shifts to crawl a little closer to the balcony’s rail with a nod of encouragement… so you follow, moving across the plush carpet to its edge, where you stop, parallel to Barbatos, and peer obediently through the miniature pillars and down into the garden. A variety of treetops checker the area, and many of the flowers are little more than splashes of vibrant color from here. The paths that wind through the statuary and strange hues of the garden are easily visible, and on one just below the balcony—</p><p>Lord Diavolo and Lucifer are easily discernible. </p><p>"Barbat—"</p><p>"Shh." He raises a gloved finger to his lips and indicates that you should look again.</p><p>Lucifer and Lord Diavolo are following a winding trail that bends around a small copse of strange trees just ahead. Their bark is a dark, deep green, and several branches stand tall, nearly vertical from the trunk, each stretching a smattering of lavender, tuft-like flowers to the sky.</p><p>"Perhaps," Barbatos says quietly, leaning over just a little, close enough that you can feel the whisper of his breath on your cheek as the pair below continues on the grassy path, "you might hazard a guess as to my final task of the day, two hours ago." </p><p>And just as you come to the conclusion—</p><p>Lucifer’s arms thrust forward into the air, one pinwheeling desperately, and the other—suddenly caught securely in Lord Diavolo’s grip. You can just make out the prince’s loud, boisterous chuckle as Lucifer struggles, listing to one side again as he tries to regain his footing.  </p><p>You’re keeping the giggles confined to your chest, though there’s no way the two on the ground would hear over Diavolo’s laughter. “You didn’t—”</p><p>“Shh.” Barbatos is watching intently, eyes glittering, and points once more into the garden. </p><p>This time, the prince catches Lucifer about the waist, and your breath stills. They’re looking at each other, just staring, and though you can’t see their expressions, can’t read their eyes, you can <em> feel </em>it—lighthearted tenderness, hesitation, tension pulled taut as a wire— </p><p>Lucifer looks away, murmuring something like <em> thank you </em>as he steps from Diavolo’s half-embrace. And just like that, the wire is cut; the moment falls away, and their walk is as before. Of course, this time, one does pay a bit more attention to the path beneath his feet, and the other…</p><p>You shrink back, anticipating the prince’s gaze, but Barbatos remains still for a moment longer, a small, wickedly amused smile on his mouth. </p><p>“Tea?” he asks, returning to his spot on the carpet, and you do the same with a nod. “Their walk was perfectly punctual; I’ll be able to pour at peak flavor.”</p><p>“You’ve been planning that <em> all afternoon?”</em> You can’t keep the delight out of your voice nor the admiration from your grin. </p><p>“Yes.” His eyes crinkle at the edges as he lifts the teapot and leans across the trays to pour. </p><p>You watch as the medium-dark liquid whispers in the bottom of your cup… and something else occurs to you. “Barbatos?”</p><p>“Yes?”</p><p>“You invited me for tea and set everything up out here so you would have the opportunity to watch with a secure alibi…” You lift your head and watch his expression carefully. “...didn’t you?” </p><p>But he doesn’t even try to hide it, a chuckle resounding in his chest. “My lord isn’t easily fooled, and he won’t be by this, but is it a proper game if one doesn’t play it to the fullest?”</p><p>Rest your head on your hand as he pours his own cup, watch the steam rise and curl from the earthenware. You think you’re getting used to demon culture; this prank was harmless, yes, but even in more severe cases, in the House of Lamentation… it seems both effort and severity are indicative of affection. Well, when they aren’t indicative of genuine ire, but oddly enough, there seems to be a subtle difference, and it all comes down to intent. “I suppose if you don’t put any effort in, no one will know you care.”</p><p>Barbatos leans over the settings again to replace the teapot, and steals your gaze, holds it steady, his eyes catching the low light, green and vibrant. “Just so.” </p><p>A smile lingers on his lips as he settles back into place, and takes up his cup. “The magical properties of crawling bardane’s root are activated by saturation, and its power moves into the water.” You retrieve your tea and inhale the scent; it’s dark, with a sharp coolness like peppermint and creamy, floral traces. “Their power is not simple locomotion; most plants can move on their own, without magical energy, even in the Human Realm—they simply move very slowly. The crawling bardane possesses magic that allows them to alter their experience of Time.” </p><p>“...<em>what?” </em></p><p>There’s something in his eyes like the shimmer of pride, but there’s a weight to the curl of his mouth. “Most beings are caught in the same flow of Time, and experience it in the same order, at the same perceived speed. Humans measure such passage in seconds, minutes, hours. The bardane’s magic allows it to shift into a different flow, wherein Time passes more quickly for the tree, while the world around continues at the same pace.”</p><p>Oh! It’s rather like thinking about a black hole. But… thankfully less complicated, perhaps. “So the tree appears to move quickly for us…” You nod, brow furrowed. “But from its perspective, the tree is still moving at the slow speed it normally would. We’re just… seeing things from different points of view?” </p><p>Barbatos tilts his head. “Have I told you that I admire your wit and intuition?” </p><p>It’s suddenly very, very warm. “I—thank you. I, er—I don’t think you have.” You know he hasn’t. You’d remember. You’d remember very well indeed if he had, just as you’ll remember this moment. </p><p>“Then I’ve been terribly remiss.” His gaze glitters, and… well, well—there’s a faint dusting of pink on his cheeks. At least you’re not the only one. “Forgive me.” </p><p>Seeing him blush makes you bold. “And if I don’t?” </p><p>He leans forward with a whisper of fabric. “Then I shall have to spend each day endeavoring to earn it.” </p><p>You have to look into the cup you’re still holding before you combust, but you still manage: “You needn't. I’d forgive you before you asked.” </p><p>There’s no sound, no visual indication that something is amiss, but you know right away that you need to raise your eyes again. Barbatos’ expression has smoothed itself perfectly into pleasant placidity. His gaze is far away, somewhere past the castle walls, and his eyes…</p><p>The sensation of your stomach dropping down through the floor, like you’ve stared too long into the void. </p><p>“You trust too easily, my friend.” He blinks, slowly. “Never give of yourself for nothing.”</p><p>An icy sensation runs down your spine, just as it had the first time he said it. <em> Never give what will not be reciprocated</em>. That was… has it been four months now since those early afternoon teas? There’s a terrible dread attached to those words, but you can’t understand…</p><p>“Drink,” Barbatos says, relaxing his shoulders as though nothing is amiss, “before the magic decays so far that there will be no effect.”</p><p>Still, you trust that, were there any immediate trouble after all that has happened already, he would tell you. So, you ask only, “What does it do?”</p><p>There’s a genuine turn to his lips. “It will give you another perspective.”</p><hr/><p>The castle’s kitchen is vast, a fusion of ancient, stone structures in brick and iron, and cutting-edge, shining technology in steel and glass and copper. One wooden door goes out to the courtyard where a small herb garden waits to be used, and another three branch off into servants’ stairs and winding halls. A set of double-doors somehow opens straight into the dining room one floor up. There’s a larder stocked with enough food to feed everyone at RAD, three brick ovens sizable enough to roast an entire cow each, gleaming deep-sinks in both steel and porcelain, countertops and island stations surfaced with marble and granite. Gas stovetops, and even, you think, a handful that run on wood, plenty to keep a multitude of dishes hot at once. It must require twenty cooks to run the place in full operation! </p><p>And in the midst of it all, Barbatos stands at Luke’s shoulder, watching as the little angel, standing on a chair to reach the high counter, rolls out some dough. </p><p>“Are you sure you wouldn’t like to try?” he asks.</p><p>You’re perched in a chair yourself, one leg tucked under the other. “I like to watch.” </p><p>Barbatos dips his head in a slight nod, giving you a half-smile before returning his attention to Luke. “As you like.”</p><p>“You’ll never get better unless you try, Ambrose!” says the angel with a bright smile, face smudged with flour. </p><p>“Maybe not.” You twist slightly in the chair to rest your arm and then your chin upon its high, wooden back. “But I’m having fun just being here.” And you’re patently bad at cooking. It’s like you have terrible luck every time you step in the kitchen, no matter how closely you follow the recipe, and you don’t need to run around tempting fate. You can make enough mediocre meals to scrape by, even if the Brothers are sick of them already. </p><p>But at least you’re not <em> Solomon</em>. “Maybe our resident wizard should come by for a lesson one day.”</p><p>“That’s a good idea!” Luke glances up from where the off-white dough lies nearly flat, in an uneven circle. “You could teach him to make food that’s not poisonous, couldn’t you, Barbatos?”</p><p>“I’m not sure even I could manage that.” He grimaces. “I’m reasonably certain Solomon somehow traded any hope of cooking for skill in sorcery.” </p><p>Luke wrinkles his nose. “He <em> is </em> awfully good at everything else…”</p><p>“Wouldn’t he <em> know </em> he can’t cook if he did?” you ask.</p><p>“It depends on the terms of the contract—don’t forget to sprinkle a little flour over the dough once more so that it doesn’t stick, Luke—it’s possible that he could have made the trade and lost all memory of it.” </p><p>You watch as the angel sprinkles the dough with flour as instructed, then gently settles it into the waiting pie tin, and muse a little more. “Or maybe he <em> does </em> know and he enjoys watching everyone try to gracefully avoid his gifts of food.” </p><p>Barbatos’ brows pinch slightly. “Unfortunately, that is just as likely.” </p><p>“Solomon <em> can </em> be mean,” Luke concedes. </p><p>“Don’t you know him better than we do, Barbatos?” </p><p>He looks at you for half a moment, then refocuses on the lovely, multicolored compote Luke is carefully dishing into the pie crust. “Solomon guards his heart as fiercely as any demon, and is just as duplicitous as an—” The steward cuts himself short with one glance at the angel, who doesn’t seem to notice as his tongue pokes out of the corner of his mouth, intensely focused on not spilling the last few drops of filling. “Suffice it to say, exceptionally duplicitous when he believes it necessary.” </p><p>That certainly does line up, but now you’re quite curious about Barbatos’ assessment of angels. Simeon and Luke have never seemed to be anything but what they say, and you’ve never felt as insecure or unsure around them as you do Solomon, nor any demon of this realm. </p><p>“But… so are we all, I suppose.” The slightest frown tugs at Barbatos’ lips as Luke sets the bowl aside.</p><p>Duplicitous. Not always deceitful, but certainly of two minds, two opinions, two motives. Of a word and an action that don’t match. An offer of a pact refused. A disastrous confrontation. A fateful trip to London and the spirit of a witch who could see what you’ve hidden—<em>Sometime in the near future, Lucifer will lose every ounce of trust he has in you</em>.</p><p>You wonder, sometimes, if Barbatos knows, if he can see the secrets you hold in your heart, secrets that shouldn’t even be yours. But he isn’t looking at you; his eyes remain fixed on the granite countertop, a crease between his brows. </p><p>“Now the lid?” Luke asks.</p><p>“Yes.” And the pleasant, placid smile is back. “To begin the lattice, roll out your extra dough, and cut it into strips; make them as wide or as thin as you like.”  </p><p>Watching Luke with his bright, focused expression and eager movements is soothing. He rolls out the dough again with the olivewood pin, steadily, meticulously laying each lump flat. When the dough starts sticking to the wood, he tosses a little more flour to keep it down. </p><p>“How was your visit home?" asks Barbatos as Luke works. "It must have been a relief to see it so much sooner than anticipated.”   </p><p>Home…? Oh. “It wasn’t home, exactly… we were in London, but I did have a great time, even with the extra drama.” In fact, there’s a little something in your pocket that you’ve been waiting for the right moment to present, but that should wait until Luke has gone back to Purgatory Hall. “London isn’t anywhere close to home.” </p><p>Luke takes an ebony-handled knife and runs it down the dough in long stripes. “It’s still the Human Realm. Isn’t that home?”</p><p>Your brow pinches. “In a grand sense, I suppose. The sun was nice while it was out, and seeing other humans was certainly a change, but it’s not really home unless I’m <em> at home</em>. My family wasn’t there, and the places weren’t familiar to me.” </p><p>“Oh,” murmurs Luke, a disappointed note ringing in his tone. “You don’t consider all humanity to be your family?” </p><p>Something sticks in your heart, something heavy and dark. “I suppose all angels are your family, aren’t they?” </p><p>He nods. “Oh, yes! I don’t know <em> everyone</em>, but I know that wherever I am, I can always count on my brothers and sisters.” </p><p>“The world—” Your throat catches as a coiling burn lights the base of your spine, and you have to sit up straighter. “—the Human Realm is too big for that. There are too many people, and humans aren’t all of one mind.” </p><p>It doesn’t hurt; the burn stays dancing just on the edge where pain and pleasure meet, as the awareness of your sin isn’t meant to be a deterrent. That would contradict the whole point of making deals with demons, wouldn’t it? And in a case like this, it seems the sin never hurts as much as the thought which began your indulgence: </p><p>Without a single familiar face, you could stand on the street surrounded by thousands of your own kind and still feel desperately alone.</p><p>“That’s…” the little angel’s face falls, and he looks into the strip of dough stretched between his hands like it has all the answers written upon it. “That sounds sad,” he decides. “I know humans can be misled and do cruel things, but I thought you should at least feel… I don’t know. I thought you could at least know that <em> most </em> people are there for you. That they can be family.” </p><p>“Sometimes they are.” Your heart clenches. He really is very like a child. “And if I needed to, I know I could have found help, but that doesn’t mean I always feel… inherently connected.” You can understand people; sometimes you think you know their emotions before they can put a name to a feeling. But when your family is halfway across the world, who is left to understand <em> you? </em> Not the lady in the tea shop, kind as her eyes may be, and not the stranger who passes you on the street, eyes fixed upon their feet. </p><p>“Lay it across the compote, Luke,” says Barbatos. “And you can trim each edge as needed.”</p><p>“Okay.” He lays the first stripe close to the center of the pie. “I’m glad you know you can get help, Ambrose. But… I don’t really understand.”</p><p>“I do.” Barbatos’ voice is quiet, but smooth and resolute as ever. He offers a soft, gentle expression from across the flour-covered counter; you can feel the burn of envy’s rune receding like an injury met with cool salve, and—</p><p>“Well… you’re a demon.” Luke doesn’t look up. “It makes sense that even a demon would have trouble trusting demons.” </p><p>The corner of your mouth pinches in a tight line. “Luke—”</p><p>Barbatos raises a gloved hand. "He isn’t incorrect.” He tilts his head, fixing the boy under his gaze. "A bit rude… but not incorrect."</p><p>Luke at least has the good sense to flush and duck his head. "Sorry," he mumbles. </p><p>“Thank you, but it is true...” The steward nods graciously, and in the next moment, he squares his posture into something you haven’t seen from him before—a stance that wouldn’t look out of place behind a professor’s lectern. "It is difficult to trust implicitly; trust is not in the nature of a demon. We lie, we cheat, we fight and steal and envy and consume.” The list rolls off his tongue so casually, no different from the ingredients in Luke’s pie. “That is our nature, and knowing this so intimately of oneself, how can you believe another of your kind will treat you fairly?”</p><p>It sounds terrible, but at the same time… is it not difficult to trust another human for those same reasons? A human is just as capable of lies, of violence. Yet, we build trust with one another. We do it because we have no other choice, because we crave that cooperation, because we have to <em> believe</em>… or what else is there?</p><p>Luke had stopped moving, paying careful attention to Barbatos’ impromptu lecture, and the latter notices, gesturing at the dough resting unattended. “Thread each piece, one through the other, as the lattice begins to take shape; we need to get the pie in the oven.”</p><p>“Right, sorry!” The angel hurries back to work, and, satisfied, Barbatos continues:</p><p>“We cannot trust implicitly, but we can bind ourselves to agreements in order to guarantee something <em> like </em> trust. This is how contracts came about: the necessity for companionship and cooperation among individuals who could not trust naturally, who struggled to compromise. Our earliest contracts and pacts were between demons."</p><p>You'd like to ask if Barbatos' loyalty to Diavolo is tied to a pact, but you know this to be a rude question, so you'll keep it to yourself… especially with Luke present. </p><p>"Do you still do that?" the angel asks, carefully threading one ribbon of dough through another, frowning when they stick before he's finished, tugging them carefully apart.</p><p>"Yes." Barbatos' verdant gaze darts toward you, then fixes itself back on Luke’s progress. "But in the modern day, pacts between demons are largely relegated only to contracts of great importance, or intimate bonds." </p><p>There’s something about the way he lingers on the word <em> intimate</em>, tasting the syllables, coloring them with the caramel-warm tone of his voice. You wonder—</p><p>You don’t dare.</p><p>“How’s this?” Luke asks, pinching the last stripe of dough into the corner-crust. The pie is now topped with a lovely checker-pattern, the rich blues and reds and greens of fruit compote showing through the pale lattice. </p><p>“Good work.” Barbatos’ eyes crinkle slightly at their edges. “It is ready for the oven.”</p><p>While Luke hops off his chair and follows the steward to a small, modern-looking oven, you let your chin rest on your arm. The bond created by a pact between a human and a demon seems to grow and change like any relationship, and the marks to reflect deeper levels of intimacy as friendship grows. But you can’t help wondering how a pact might be affected with the addition of romantic affections. Might it feel different? Could you share more? Would it be anything like such an intimacy between two demons? </p><p>There’s a pang in your chest. Well. This all depends on whether a human and a demon could have a relationship of that nature in the first place, and… you’re not so young anymore that you’ll ignore your responsibilities just to find out.</p><p>Music. </p><p>It startles you for just a moment—a gilded melody that sounds a little like a harpsichord, like the ring of crystal, resonating like a violin. You don’t realize it’s coming from Luke’s DDD until he pulls it out of his pocket. </p><p>“Oh! It’s Simeon… excuse me for a minute!” </p><p>Barbatos has barely nodded before the little angel dashes into the corridor, tassels flying over his shoulder. </p><p>“We aren’t yet running behind our time,” the butler muses, briskly crossing the kitchen.</p><p>To be honest, you don’t care why Simeon is calling; this is an excellent opportunity, and you’re not going to waste it. “Barbatos.”</p><p>He tilts his head, and rather than return to his previous place, joins you on your side of the island. “Yes?”</p><p>You sit up, and find the interior pocket of your frock coat to fetch the small parcel that’s practically been burning a hole in it all day. “Don’t tell anyone else, but I brought something back for you from London.” </p><p>Eyes alight, glittering, Barbatos watches your hands carefully. “You told my lord that there hadn’t been time to make any purchases.” </p><p>“I believe <em> Lucifer </em>said that.” You grin, and press the little, square package, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a black ribbon, into his gloved fingers. </p><p>“But you did not disagree.” Still, he’s smiling, and you let your hands brush his for a moment longer than necessary, your touch lingering over fine linen, finding the contour of his knuckles and the divots between his fingers. He leans forward, just a little, holding fast to your gaze. “Perhaps you’re spending too much time among demons.”</p><p>“Perhaps I’m spending too much time around <em> you</em>.” Your grin becomes a little lopsided. “I didn’t lie, after all. I just… didn’t disabuse anyone of their assumptions.” </p><p>Barbatos chuckles, deep and delighted, and the sound warms your cheeks, sinks into your chest. “Then I shall have to keep our secret.” The corner of his mouth creases. “Shall I open it?”</p><p>“Yes, of course!” You bury your hands in your lap as, without further prompting, he tugs at the ribbon and unfolds the paper in conservative, graceful movements. </p><p>When the paper falls away, it reveals a small tin. Nothing particularly fancy, only a plain, square container about three ounces in volume, copper and silver in color. </p><p>Gently, Barbatos presses the lid from the box, and his countenance softens. “Human Realm tea.” He brings it closer, takes a long, deep breath, and closes his eyes. “Ceylon, elderberry, vanilla.” </p><p>Delight colors your voice: “The woman who blended it calls it ‘Reverie’.”  </p><p>His fingers tighten around the tin, a faint flush of pink gracing his cheeks. The corner of his mouth twitches, like it’s not quite sure what to do, unused to the smile that threatens to flash his teeth, and you can’t help but wonder what it might look like to see them bared in joy, if it might reconcile the demonic with the tender—</p><p>Barbatos’ thigh lightly brushes your knee. “Thank you.” The tall chair puts you just below eye-level, and the slightest tilt of his head steals your gaze, warm and electric. “Sweet cynamome…” He lingers on the syllables, considering, delicate and precise, and your heart follows them double-time. “Should you—”</p><p>“Sorry about that!”</p><p>If you could have, you would’ve jumped three feet backward, but as it is, you simply jolt ineffectively against the chair-back. </p><p>Luke bounces toward his seat. “What did I miss?”</p><p>You glance at Barbatos’ hands, but the tea-tin has disappeared, and the steward takes half a step back, turning an amicable expression upon his student. “We were discussing tonight’s engagement at Ristorante Six. Satan gave a remarkable speech to the student body today, and my lord thought it prudent to celebrate.” </p><p>Your heart is nearly in your throat, but you swallow and take the lead he’s given. “That, and the broken curse.” </p><p>“Oh, yeah—I think we were invited, too.” Luke props his hands under his chin, leaning on the granite surface, apparently not noticing the way his sleeves drag through flour. “It’s too bad it’s tonight… Simeon’s been planning a party for Purgatory Hall and Spectre Quad for weeks.” </p><p>“I’m sure you’ll have a good time,” you reassure automatically, not really thinking, struggling to divide your attention evenly between the angel and Barbatos’ serene profile. </p><p>“Let’s get this cleaned up, Luke, and prepare for tea before the pie needs checking.” While you’re glad someone here can spin a good story, you can’t help but feel disappointed as Barbatos leaves your immediate presence to tend to other matters. </p><p>Halfway to your feet, you offer some help with the dishes—</p><p>But you don’t even hear Luke’s reply, because you catch a smile cast over Barbatos’ shoulder meant only for you, eyes glittering, allowing the smallest flash of glassen teeth. Your heart stutters in your chest, and <em> oh</em>—</p><p>It really is quite something.</p><hr/><p>If forced to guess, you’d suppose that it has been eight hours since Luke’s baking lesson, something like three hours since dinner, and maybe forty-five minutes since seeing Belphegor for the first time, properly, in the flesh. But it feels like days. </p><p>Needless to say, nothing went the way you had hoped it would. </p><p>You lie back on the satiny comforter of Luke’s bed. Ordinarily, you wouldn’t presume, but he already gave you permission to stay, the mattress is downy, and... you’re tired. Very, very tired. It’s something like one in the morning, and the longer you lie here, listening to Luke’s disgruntled murmurs and Simeon’s soothing, cheerful comebacks, the further your consciousness flickers away from wakefulness. While the warm dark behind your eyes is tempting, there's so much else swimming through your mind… The sixth pact, still unmade. Leviathan's panicked message, the creepy game of hide and seek. The <em> truth</em>, finally, hoping that the eldest would understand, that you two could speak on level terms, Lucifer’s snarling visage—</p><p>Tomorrow. You can take care of all this tomorrow. </p><p>The talking has died down now; the angels must have gone. Inhale, deep and slow. </p><p>The mattress poffs upward under your back. “Told you it wouldn’t work out with Lucifer.”</p><p>You don't open your eyes. "It <em> can</em>." </p><p>"If you try to go back, he might just kill you." The mattress shifts and rolls as Belphegor gets comfortable. "Right, Beel?"</p><p>Elsewhere in the house, the floor creaks.</p><p>You feel Belphegor sit up. "Beel?" </p><p>"...it really is you," Beelzebub rumbles, softly, and you open your eyes to see him towering over the edge of the bed. </p><p>"Of course it's me. You just realized that now?" Belphegor grins, lopsided. "What, you need another hug?"</p><p><em> Whumph</em>. </p><p>Arms flailing, you go sliding off the bed, onto the plush carpet, and into the striped wallpaper. You’re awake now.</p><p>“B—Beel, you’re crushing me—” Belphegor wheezes, but he’s smiling. “And anyway, the human is <em> right there</em>…” </p><p>Beelzebub pops his head up from his twin’s shoulder. “I don’t care.”</p><p>“Well, <em> you </em>may not, but think about me…”</p><p>“I don’t mind.” You lean back against the wall, shifting to a slightly more comfortable position. Your heart is warm knowing that <em> something </em>about this went right. </p><p>“Mm? Where are—” Amethyst eyes appear over the edge of the bed. “Oh! Sorry…” Beel smiles, sheepish, and slings an arm around your waist, tugging you back onto the mattress with no effort at all. </p><p>“All right… that’s enough hugging,” murmurs Belphegor, still supporting half his twin’s body weight. “If you exert yourself for no reason, you’ll get hungry.” </p><p>Reluctantly, Beelzebub sits up, but doesn’t take his gaze from Belphegor, a serious furrow between his brows. </p><p>He tilts his head. “...what?”</p><p>“Why, Belphie?” He folds his hand over his wrist, tucking his arms close to his stomach. “Why did Lucifer lock you up in the attic?” His mouth creases, hard and harsh. “Why would he do something like that to you and <em> lie </em>to us about it?” </p><p>Belphegor’s eyes shift toward you, just for a moment, with the sting of bitterness. “Well…”</p><p>
  <em> “Because if he hadn’t, Belphegor might have destroyed the human world.” </em>
</p><p>You nearly lose your balance again in the collective flinch that rocks the bedframe. Standing in the doorway is Lord Diavolo, arms folded tightly over his chest, tall and grim, and over his shoulder—as always—awaits Barbatos, face carefully blank. </p><p>“Hello, Belphegor.” The prince smiles, exceedingly pleasant, but there’s a dissonant, warning note in his golden eyes. “It’s been a while.” </p><p>The demon in question stiffens. “Lord Diavolo… hello.” </p><p>Beelzebub wrinkles his brow. “Lord Diavolo, what are you doing here?” </p><p>“I’m sure Lucifer must have told you about me,” Belphegor sneers. “Seeing as he’s your loyal lap dog and all.” </p><p>You want to say that Lucifer wouldn’t have sold the three of you out. You want to believe that Lord Diavolo is mistaken. You want to hear that it’s a misunderstanding.</p><p> You wish Barbatos weren’t deliberately avoiding your eyes, tall and still as a sentinel.</p><p>But you’re not that foolish. You have all pieces sitting before you, and no matter how you’d like to unsee them, you can’t put them away. Your mouth is dry. “...is it true, Belphegor?”</p><p>His sharp frown is directed at the cool green of the bedspread. </p><p>“Well…?” prods Beel. His voice is low, steady. Forgiving. </p><p>Belphegor doesn’t speak, nose wrinkling, teeth glinting in the lamplight.</p><p>Beelzebub straightens up, towering, though he has not risen to his feet. “Answer me.”</p><p>The younger snaps his head up, dark eyes glinting. “Why don’t you ask Lord Diavolo and his steward? I mean, check out the look they’ve got on their faces,” he wheedles, and your heart sinks, heavy with dread. “Clearly they think they know everything there is to know.”</p><p>“You might want to <em> watch your tongue</em>,” says Barbatos, in a low, threatening tone you recognize. His gaze cuts like the winter chill. “It would seem that the time you have spent hidden away in that room has made you forget your place.” </p><p>The dread in your chest becomes cold understanding. </p><p>Lord Diavolo shakes his head. “It’s okay, Barbatos.” </p><p>He defers with a formal nod, but does not remove Belphegor from his sight.</p><p>The prince folds his arms with a sigh. “I’ll tell you what happened, though you may not be pleased with what I have to say.” His golden eyes shift from Belphegor, to Beelzebub, before finally resting upon you. “It is well known that Belphegor opposed the exchange program from the start. What I <em> did not </em> know is that Lucifer was unable to persuade his brother of the merits of the program.” </p><p>Diavolo rolls his neck along his shoulders until he fixes the demon in question under his hard, amber gaze. “You’ve always hated humans, haven’t you, Belphegor?”</p><p>The chill in your chest seeps into your blood. </p><p>“That’s why you couldn’t accept my plan. And you certainly couldn’t stomach that Lucifer <em> agreed </em> with it. You got angry.”</p><p>You’ve missed a breath, two, three. The air seems stale and heavy.</p><p>“So angry that you lost control of yourself. And if no one stopped you, you might have inflicted great harm upon the human world.”</p><p>You look at Belphegor’s face. Searching, for something, <em> anything </em> to indicate that he had changed his mind. That he’s not the same demon who would—</p><p>But he sees you staring and meets your gaze with bitter, hollow <em> rage </em> that washes through your bones, gathers tears behind your eyes until you wrench your sights back to your lap, to the coverlet, to your shaking hands. </p><p><em> He lied</em>. <em> He lied, he lied, he lied, and he used you</em>. </p><p>“Lucifer knew the danger, and he chose to shelter you. Next, he told me he sent you off to the human world.” </p><p>“Lucifer <em> sheltered </em> me…? Did I hear that right?” Belphegor growls, eyes shadowed under the fringe of his hair. “He locked me up, sealed me away, confined me, detained me, imprisoned me, held me captive—” he spits. “That’s what you call <em> sheltering </em> me? Seriously? If you’re trying to be funny, I’m not laughing.” </p><p>Lord Diavolo arches his brow. “Oh, no, that was the correct choice of words.” A shadow of foreboding creeps over your shoulders, from the sharp glint in the prince’s eye, to the too-light tone of his voice, just like before, in the courtroom. “He was sheltering you <em> from me</em>.” </p><p>Belphegor sits back, eyes growing wide. He’s realizing, as you have. As Beel has yet to accept. </p><p>“Because he knew that if he didn’t, I’d have put you in <em> chains</em>.” </p><p>As if on command, a cloying darkness chokes at the lamps, the chandelier, creeping and oppressive and electric, such that you shrink into yourself, to the edge of the mattress, away—</p><p>“<b>Hear my voice and heed my command.</b>” Barbatos’ voice rings like a low, tolling bell. “ <b>These words are sound… the sound, melody.</b>” The aura—the power—is his, licking along his form, blurring its edges, and it sing it does, humming, playing upon the air, felt more than heard. <b> “Through it, I bind thee, and rob thee of thy freedom.</b>” </p><p>The darkness fades into light, leaving Belphegor trembling where he sits.</p><p>“That was a binding spell that will keep you restrained,” the steward says, pleasantly. “And it cannot be broken… not by you, at least.” For the first time since he entered the room, the little, serene smile is back on his face.</p><p>“Belphegor,” Lord Diavolo raises his head high. “You are hereby charged with treason.” </p><p>Beelzebub’s mouth drops open, but nothing comes out.</p><p>“Barbatos, take Belphegor away. He’s to be kept beneath the castle.” </p><p>He turns away from the bed and performs a full, formal bow. “Yes, my Lord.” And when he straightens, he gestures, just once, with two, gloved fingers toward the bed. </p><p>“N—no!” Belphegor rises, jolting, twisting like a marionette, from the mattress to the floor. “<em>NO!”</em> He howls like a mad thing, a caged, raging animal that can do nothing more than scream. </p><p>Beelzebub is on his feet in an instant, teeth bared. “<b><em>Stop…!</em></b><em>” </em></p><p>Halfway to your feet, you’re doubled over in a tidal wave of <em> terror</em>. Griefterrordesperationfearragesadnessemptyemptyhorrordeterminationpainpainpain—</p><p>It’s Beel’s, radiating from your pact like heat from the sun.</p><p>But nothing can halt Belphegor’s steady steps toward the door. “<em>Beel!” </em></p><p>And there’s no pity behind veridian eyes. </p><p>As the door clicks shut behind them, you’re still frozen to the spot—until you feel Beel bracing, ready—</p><p>“How… HOW COULD YOU DO THIS?” Before Beelzebub can make a single step, you throw yourself against his chest, heels digging into the carpet with all the earnest hope of stopping a freight train. “<b><em>DIAVOLO!</em> </b>” </p><p>“Beel—“ You gasp, and you’re sure the only reason you’re being driven steadily back instead of lying on the floor, tossed to one side, is the fact that he isn’t so far gone that he’ll allow himself to hurt you. “Beel—”</p><p>The door creaks open. “What’s all the yelling?” Luke’s voice drifts over your shoulder. “Lord Diavolo, what’re you doing here?” </p><p>“Luke, help me!” Reposition your arms to fold across his chest, lowering your center of gravity to make yourself harder to move. </p><p>“Huh? Oh-okay!” He darts around behind the demon.</p><p>“Let go of me, Ambrose!” Beel growls, and wraps his hands around your shoulders.</p><p>If you let him set you aside now, he might attack the prince. If he attacks the prince—</p><p>Things will get so much worse. You breathe deeply through your nose, reach down to where you can feel Beel’s outpouring of terror and grief and rage and muster the strongest voice you have:</p><p>“Beel, <b>STOP</b><b><em>.</em></b>”</p><p>He freezes in place, fingers tight round your shoulders, unshed tears welling in opalescent eyes, mouth still caught in a snarl. </p><p>“R—right, exactly!” Luke’s head peeks out from around Beelzebub’s hip. “Listen to Ambrose!”</p><p>Draw a shaking breath, and press your open hands to his chest. “Beel… If you fight now, you’ll make it worse for Belphegor.”</p><p>He’s still growling, deep in his chest, but he releases you, and settles into a neutral position. You drop your arms and sigh, but his ire still swirls beneath the ache of your own heart, the confusion, the weariness. </p><p>“Finally,” the angel sighs, and plops himself down on his bed. “Hercules here has calmed down…”</p><p>Beelzebub doesn’t break eye-contact, gaze still swimming, anxious, angry, afraid.</p><p>You nod, close your eyes, and without turning back to the prince, ask: “What’s going to happen to Belphegor?”</p><p>“He’ll likely face judgement for his crimes.” You can hear him shift, hear the rustle of fabric and the faint jingle of the crest on his jacket. “And... I’ve had to put Lucifer under house arrest. He’s confined to the House of Lamentation.”</p><p>You do turn around this time, and fix Lord Diavolo with a level stare. “Why?”</p><p>He squares his shoulders, folding his hands behind his back. “It’s my mission and my duty to help bring stability to the three worlds—to shepherd them along that path.” His mouth presses in a thin line. “Belphegor is trying to destroy that very same path. <em> And you</em>.” </p><p>Your brow draws together in a crease. </p><p>“Belphegor wouldn’t—!” Beel seizes your hand, squeezes it, but there’s a note of hesitation now in your stomach that gives him away.</p><p>Perhaps he’s had the same realization you have, though he’s missing a piece of the puzzle that only you have access to. </p><p>Namurta, who made an attempt on your life before, was a demoness related to the sin of Sloth, Belphegor’s domain. Though he was locked away, kept from making physical contact with anyone in the Devildom, his domain is <em> sleep</em>. You’ve been doing your homework; dream-walking, you suppose, wouldn’t be a stretch. And when asked if Belphegor knew Namurta after you related all that had happened—he lied. You had assumed it was anger or grief which motivated his secrecy, but clearly you were mistaken. </p><p>“He called for my assassination,” you say.</p><p>Lord Diavolo nods, gravely. “Yes.” </p><p>“<em>Belphie</em>…” </p><p>You squeeze Beel’s hand, and purse your lips. “Still, that doesn’t entirely make sense. They tried to poison me <em> after </em>I had agreed to help Belphegor get out of the attic. Why would he try to kill someone he was already using?”</p><p>The prince shrugs. “I imagine he would’ve counted it as a victory in either case. If he could manage to harm someone in the exchange program without escaping, things would be even worse for Lucifer. And, I imagine it didn’t have to be <em> you;</em> it’s simply that you were the easiest target, lacking experience and power of your own.” Lord Diavolo sighs, deeply, and folds his arms over his chest. “Now, as for Lucifer—he knew what Belphegor meant to do, and protected him anyway.” His golden eyes are dark and distant. “I’d say that more than justifies the steps I’ve taken, don’t you think?”</p><p>With that, he turns on his heel, and retraces his steps back to the door, but pauses just before reaching for the brass knob. “Also, remember that you’re just an exchange student here, and nothing more.” He casts a cool glance over his shoulder. “This is a problem that concerns us demons only; as a human, you have no right to interfere.”  </p><p>The door creaks open. It clicks shut. </p><p>Your knees are shaking, but you don’t notice until Beelzebub slides to the floor, and you follow the gentle tug on your hand. </p><p>“Wow,” says Luke. </p><p>You sigh, and lean back against the bed. “Wow,” you repeat, dully. </p><p>“Wow,” Beelzebub agrees, just on the edge of despair. </p><p>“What are you going to do?” the angel asks, softly.</p><p>Bring a hand up between your brows, and try to massage the tension from your forehead, the bridge of your nose, your temples. “I want to talk to Lucifer. We need the whole story, and Belphegor isn’t going to give it to us.” You lean your head up and back, open your eyes to find Luke staring down, radiantly impressed, into your face. His bright, little presence is calming, and you find yourself with the weary trace of a smile gracing your mouth. “Beel and I are going back to the House of Lamentation... and <em> you </em> can go to sleep for tonight.” </p><p>“But there’s so much happening!”</p><p>“And are you sure you want to go back?” Beelzebub rumbles, drawing a knee up to his chest, brows drawn anxiously. “B… Belphie was right. Lucifer <em> might </em>try to kill you.” </p><p>You shake your head. “No, he won’t.” </p><p>“How are you so sure?”</p><p>“Guilt.” Slowly, you push yourself away from the bed. “Lucifer turned Belphegor in not long after we left… in doing so, he acknowledged that all of this is his responsibility. And if Lord Diavolo put together that Belphegor was involved in the assassination attempt, Lucifer almost definitely put it together, and now he’s dealing with the consequences.” You exhale, slowly, through your nose. “He’s the oldest; it’s his duty.” </p><p>Beelzebub tilts his head. “How do you know that?”</p><p>You smile, wanly. “When I’m back home, he and I have the same job.” </p><p>“Oh.” Beel looks at his lap. “I’m sorry.” </p><p>“Don’t be.” You rest a hand on his shoulder. “Everybody will be right where I left them.”</p><p>“Well… you shouldn’t have to take care of us, too, while you’re here.” </p><p>Bracing against the carpet with one hand, you push yourself to standing. “You know, I’m not sure I know how to do anything else.” You ruffle his russet hair. “Don’t worry about me.”</p><hr/><p>This was a stupid plan. The kind of plan only possible to concoct at three o’clock in the morning against one demon too proud and stubborn to open a <em> damn door </em> with the help of five brothers chaotic as ever and completely out of <em> good </em> ideas.</p><p>Maybe you should have taken a nap instead and tackled this in the proper morning, when the false sun comes up and turns inky darkness to pale green gloom… but no, you couldn’t leave even a liar and would-be murderer in the dungeon longer than necessary. Instead, you let Beel give you those big, sad eyes, and allowed Mammon to talk you into a scheme.  </p><p>A stupid scheme. A very stupid scheme in which you’re reaching for a grimoire entombed on angel’s sarchophagus while Cerberus itself breathes down your neck. </p><p>But there’s no time to worry about that now. </p><p>Your fingers brush the soft leather cover, and the tingle of magic zips across your skin.</p><p>
  <em> You’re not yourself. Your wings are bent, your armor dull. You’re battered and bleeding, but none of that matters— </em>
</p><p>
  <em> None of that matters because she’s not even conscious in your arms. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Lilith… </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Hands shaking, you push the hair back from her face. This is your fault. You should have been at her side. Where were you? Where were you when the blow fell? Your next breath won’t come as your hand skirts the wound, golden ichor sticky between your fingers. </em>
</p><p><em>“If she’s exposed to Devildom air for much longer, she’ll likely perish.”</em> <em>His voice is strange to you, but you know the ashen presence.</em></p><p><em> Teeth bared, your wings flare protectively. </em> Demons<em>.  </em></p><p><em> And not just demons—the demon </em> <b> <em>prince</em></b>. <em> It’s his steward assessing the damage, speaking words you don’t want to hear, things you know but you can’t— </em></p><p>
  <em> The well of rage in your chest is deep, and hotter than the flaming pits of Hell.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “She doesn’t have long.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But your despair is deeper, and so, so cold.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “--elp.” The words are caught in your throat, sticking to your pride. The blood on your hands is drying. “Please.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Her breaths rattle and wheeze. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Please.” To Hell with it all. “I beg you, Diavolo. Help her.” </em>
</p><p><em> To Hell with </em> you <em> , if it makes any difference. </em></p><p>
  <em> “I don’t care what happens to me.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Lilith... </em>
</p><p>
  <em> … </em>
</p><p>
  <em> … </em>
</p><p>
  <em>…</em>
</p><p>
  <em> No matter how far apart we may be, no matter how much time passes, even if someday you’re no longer yourself—I’ll never forget you. And I’ll always pray that you find happiness. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Always. </em>
</p><p>“—brose! Yo! Ambrose, hey!” </p><p>Mammon?</p><p>“What’re ya doin’! How can you be starin’ off into space at a time like this, <em> grab the book!”  </em></p><p>A horrible, snapping growl echoes through the chamber, races down your spine, and your next, sharp inhale runs dry, moisture wicked right out of the air with a searing gout of flame. </p><p>“Mamooooooon!” Asmodeus wails, and you chance a glance over your shoulder to see him duck behind Satan, whose arms are spread and trembling, a shimmering barrier winking just past his fingertips, holding the three-headed dog back. “What’re we supposed to do now?” </p><p>Mammon’s wings snap as he darts through the air, distracting one of the snarling heads. “<em>Pick up the grimoire, Ambrose!” </em> </p><p>“Don’t think,” pants Satan. “Just DO IT.” </p><p>Drawing a deep breath, you try again, pushing past the electric tingle in your fingers and—</p><p>There’s ivy wrapped around the tome, too tightly to tug free without help. “It’s—it’s stuck!” </p><p>“Mammon, I can’t keep this beast at bay much longer!”</p><p>“O—over here, you foul beast!” squeaks Levi, but there’s no time to chance another look. </p><p>“Fetch!” That’s Beel, but—</p><p>You try again with both hands, curling your fingers into the woody vines, ignoring the way the magic licks your skin, harsher this time, burning—</p><p>Cerberus roars again, guttural, raising the hair on your arms. It sounds nothing like a dog, nothing like any earthly creature—</p><p>“CERBERUS.” </p><p>Your arms drop to your sides and everything freezes. One breath. Two.</p><p>“<b>Sit.</b>” </p><p>The great, three-headed hound steps back and sits at attention to reveal Lucifer striding between the sarcophagi. His steps are slow, measured, but there’s a darkness on his brow, harsh lines creasing his face. </p><p>“W—we’re…” Mammon swallows.</p><p>Asmodeus straightens up, shaking. “We’re s—s—”</p><p>“We’re saved.” Beelzebub slides down onto one of the benches, folding his arms across his lap, and Leviathan follows right behind.</p><p>“I thought for sure I was dead that time.” </p><p>Satan rolls his shoulders, dusts off his sweater. “If you’re gonna show up and save the day, Lucifer, do it <em> sooner</em>.”   </p><p>“You should be thankful that I came at all,” he says quietly. The measured pace of his steps stops, the last click of his heel echoing through the chamber. He looks from one face to another. “I don’t believe all of you. Can’t you go <em> one day </em> without causing trouble?” The hard lines around his mouth smooth into something… weary. “And this is unexpected. You’re joined by the very two people who should be keeping a low profile... “</p><p>When Lucifer meets your eyes, you can see it properly—  </p><p>“Beel. Ambrose.” </p><p>—he’s so, so <em> tired</em>. Every bit as tired as you feel, and perhaps more. </p><p><em> I don’t care what happens to me</em>.</p><p>Your heart is in your throat. His brothers are all half-looking away, not sure what to do. Not sure if they should interfere. Beel is nonetheless ready to spring to your side should anything happen, you can see it, but…</p><p>You take one step forward, and then another. You can still feel…</p><p>Between your fingers, golden ichor, heavy, sluggish, an angel’s blood, his own sister’s blood—a life for, not simply a <em> life, </em>but one’s own will. </p><p>Lucifer stands unmoving, eyes narrow, shadowed by sleepless nights, colored with shame, shoulders heavy in a way you recognize. And for a moment—your throat threatens to close, heart panging sharply. </p><p>You throw your arms around his waist, and hold as tightly as you can. </p><p>“Your brothers need to hear the truth.”</p><hr/><p>The fireplace crackles and snaps. Lucifer sits back in the armchair, hands folded under his chin, finished recounting the events that led to Belphegor’s imprisonment in the attic. Mammon leans against the mantle, pursing his lips and shaking his head. Leviathan’s leg bounces anxiously from his seat on the corner of the sofa, occasionally knocking into Beelzebub’s knee, though neither seems to notice. Asmodeus just… sits, quietly, while Satan leans over the back of the couch, staring at nothing. </p><p>You don’t need the pacts to be able to feel the undercurrent of disbelief, to know the aftertaste of old grief. But you… there’s a slow, crushing sensation in your chest. </p><p>“You… you <em> said </em> that to him?” Your hand passes over your mouth and chin. “You said <em> that </em> to him?” Slowly, you rise from the sofa, but your heart races. Around your forarm, a searing heat coils, but it’s nothing compared to the simmer of your blood, and just on the edge of vision, Satan stiffens. “You… you said <em> those words </em> … <em> to your </em> <b> <em>brother?</em></b><em>”  </em></p><p>Lucifer opens his mouth indignantly, but stops, a hand pressed to his chest when he meets your gaze. “I—”</p><p>“‘<em>It’s time you forgot about that.” </em> Two strides bring you to the armchair, where you loom over the eldest. “ <em> Damn it, Lucifer, you </em> <b> <em>idiot!</em> </b> Do you have <em> any </em> emotional sense at <em> all?” </em> you hiss.</p><p>He draws his shoulders up. “I—”</p><p>“<em>I </em> know what you meant, but <em> what you meant </em> is <em> not </em> what Belphegor heard!” </p><p>Gently, someone touches your back. “Ambrose, maybe—”</p><p>“<b><em>No!</em></b><em>” </em> The hand drops, and your throat is closing, tears prickling. “<em>You </em>never forgot, Lucifer! Why should anyone else?” You swallow, drag another breath out of your throat. “No matter how far apart… no matter how much time passed. You didn’t. How can anyone else?”</p><p>There’s a choking sound; Lucifer goes very, very pale—and then very, very red. “<em>How </em>—?”</p><p>But you close your eyes, and press your hands over them, draw a shaking breath. First one, and then another, until the flaming burn of the runes encircling your forearm—marks you still haven’t seen; what time is it now? How long since Satan offered the pact? How long since Belphegor left the attic? How long since you last slept?—fades into dull embers. Can you even explain what you saw? Another deep breath, and you wipe the wetness from beneath your eyes, from the tops of your cheeks. “I… touched the grimoire. It’s yours, isn’t it.” </p><p>Slowly, he nods, fingers curled tightly against the arms of the chair, a ruddy pallor still lingering in his cheeks. “What is it that you know?”</p><p>You’re so tired. With the anger gone, you feel as though your strings have been cut, and your intention is to return to the sofa—but Mammon is lingering just behind you, hands fisted in his pockets, avoiding your eyes. You reach out, and squeeze his shoulder. </p><p>You address Lucifer without turning back. “I know it has to be your choice, after this long.” You close your eyes. “And I still don’t understand why Belphegor hates humans. He blames us for Lilith’s death… but why?”  </p><p>Beel hums. “That’s not something we usually—”</p><p>“All right,” says Mammon. “Listen up. There ain’t any rule sayin’ we can’t talk about what happened with Lilith, is there? C’mon.” He reaches up to clasp your arm. “We should answer Ambrose’s question.” </p><p>Lucifer sighs, and the chair creaks when he stands. “You’re right.” He stands at your shoulder, meeting first Mammon’s eyes, and then yours. “We’ll tell you what happened… what you have a right to know.” He draws a slow, deep breath. “And… there’s something else. Something I must tell the rest of you.” His attention turns to the fireplace, eyes distant, a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I believe it’s time.”</p><hr/><p>The clock on the mantle ticks away. The time is 5:16. There’s a faint glow upon the window-panes, and a dull throb in your temples. </p><p>“Ya heard what Lucifer said, right? About why Belphie hates humans?” Mammon’s chin rests in his hands, elbows propped on his knees. “I mean, he wants to wipe out humanity.” He leans back in the armchair, and shakes his head. “I don’t know how he’s acted in front of you up to now, but the fact is he tricked ya, right? And yet you’re tellin’ me you still want to go see him? <em> Even after all that?” </em></p><p>From the ottoman, it’s difficult to avoid his gaze. You sigh.</p><p>“They didn’t even want Namurta to die when she tried to kill them,” says Beel around a rice ball. “And Belphie—”</p><p>“Was the cause of that, too.” Lucifer folds his arms across his chest, and paces toward the window. </p><p>You lace your hands together. “I think it’s a good idea to go see him. You all need to sit down and talk… he might have thought he lied to me, but this <em> was </em> a misunderstanding. It’s just… bad communication—everybody wrapped up in their own pain and doing what they think is right.” </p><p>Satan shakes his head, frowning, one hand on his hip. “Barbatos was right… you’re too forgiving for your own good.” </p><p>“But it works out for us!” Asmodeus smiles brightly. </p><p>“So… we’re really going to do this?” Beel tucks his hands against his stomach, snack gone. He leans forward. “We’re… going to see Belphie?”</p><p>You nod. “If everyone is willing.”</p><p>“Aaaaaa!” Leviathan bounces in his seat. “This is just like in TSL when Henry gathers the Seven Lords to confront the Prince of Darkness!” </p><p>But Mammon shakes his head. “I know we all wanna see Belphie, but...”</p><p>“Diavolo has him locked up now, right?” Asmodeus’ face falls. “So if we went to see him, we’d basically be...”</p><p>Satan nods. “We’d be disobeying Diavolo, yeah.”</p><p>Everyone turns to Lucifer, who stands gazing out the window at the first light of morning. He does not move. </p><p>“Aw, come on,” whines Leviathan. “Come ooooon, Lucifer!” </p><p>“D’AAAH!” Mammon launches himself out of the armchair. “ENOUGH OF THIS! Who’s more important to you, Lucifer? Your sweet little brother, or that hard-headed boss of yours?” </p><p>“Pff.” Levi covers his mouth. “‘That hard-headed boss of yours?’ lolol. Are you talking about Lord Diavolo?”</p><p>“Couldn’t you have worded that… differently?” Satan sighs. </p><p>“Still.” Beelzebub rises from the sofa, and joins Mammon. “I want to know the answer to that question, too. Lucifer, who’s more important to you: Belphie, or Diavolo?”</p><p>The eldest bows his head, silent. The fireplace crackles; the clock ticks. “As if you needed to ask.” Then, he glances over his shoulder, a soft smile on his lips. “You already know the answer.” </p><p>The curve of your mouth mirrors his. “Shall we, then?”</p><hr/><p>You’re not sure the Demon King’s Castle has ever loomed so high before. The tallest spire casts a shadow that begins half a mile from the gate, and it’s here that Lucifer falls back just slightly, finding pace with you. The others are speaking to one another, not arguing for once, just engaging in mundane conversation you’re not sure even <em> they </em>are paying attention to, the dialogue no more than a means of offsetting anxiety.  </p><p>But Lucifer tilts his head, and murmurs very seriously: “You needn’t be involved in all this.” </p><p>“I want to.” You’re absolutely exhausted, but you’re going to see this through. </p><p>“And I appreciate that. I <em> value </em> your compassion, your loyalty to my family.” His ruby gaze is fixed on the path ahead. “You put me to shame today.” </p><p>You open your mouth to argue, but he just continues:</p><p>“<em>Don't </em>say anything. Just know this: if you wish to return to the House of Lamentation until this is over, or if you wish to say nothing when we arrive at the castle, my brothers and I will think no less of you.” </p><p>Your brow creases. “...why?”</p><p>He sighs. “I… know how <em> well </em> you get on with Barbatos.” </p><p>In your chest, your heart skips three beats and puts your nerves on high alert. “What does… that... have to do with anything?”</p><p>Lucifer’s eyes slide to you, burgundy and sharp. “If you choose to stand with us, you must know that he will not stand with you.” </p><p><em> Ah</em>. You push the tail of your coat out of the way, and shove your hands into your trouser pockets. “I know.” </p><p>“You don’t have to do it.”</p><p>Firmly, you fix your gaze upon your feet, keeping an even pace over the cobblestone road, its surface worn smooth. You wet your lips. “I don’t begrudge Barbatos his loyalty.” </p><p>He nods. “I know.”</p><p>“And I don’t believe he’ll begrudge me mine.” </p><p>He hums, low, and it resonates in his chest. But a strange smile crosses his face. “He was right about one thing… your time is wasted on us.” Lucifer places a heavy hand on your shoulder and squeezes, once. </p><p>The doors wait not far ahead, their timbers tall as trees. In a human structure, such an entrance would include a wicket gate, but in this demonic edifice, each door is a solid sentry, moved only by magic. The brothers fall silent in the shadow of the castle. At last, you’re standing dwarfed before the massive doors. </p><p>Lucifer raises his gloved fist, and knocks three times. </p><p>The heavy, dark wood creaks slowly open to reveal the vaulted entrance hall, Barbatos’ solemn nod of greeting—</p><p>And Lord Diavolo’s smiling visage. </p><p>“Diavolo,” Lucifer says, grim. The lack of honorific grates on your ears, but the prince doesn’t seem to notice. “I want to talk to you.” </p><p>“Well, hello, Lucifer! And yes, I assumed as much when I saw you at the door.” His golden eyes crinkle at the edges, welcoming. It unsettles your stomach. “Please, come in.” </p><p>You file into the vestibule, past statues and portraits, into the main hall, following on Lord Diavolo’s heels. Barbatos brings up the rear, where you lose sight of him, and a sharp chill crawls along your skin. This escort feels like a guarded march.</p><p>“Lucifer,” the steward calls as Diavolo stops beneath the grand chandelier, “if I’m not mistaken, aren’t you supposed to be under house arrest?” </p><p>The brothers file into a semi-circle, with you tucked just behind the eldest, beside Beelzebub. </p><p>On Lucifer’s other side, Mammon scoffs: “Ugh, just listen to you. You think you’re real cute with that ‘if I’m not mistaken’ stuff, don’t ya? How about you come out and say what you mean!” </p><p>“Mammon, enough. I came here of my own free will; no one forced me.” Lucifer holds his head high. “And I’ll accept whatever punishment is due. But there’s something else we need to take care of first.”</p><p>But Barbatos doesn’t seem to hear; he paces along behind the group, slowly approaching his master’s side. “And what do we have here?" He eyes each of the brothers up and down, the usual placid turn adorning his lips. "Has the entire family come along today?”</p><p>“Well, what do you expect?” Satan props a hand on his hip, squares his shoulders with a too-cool smile. “We <em> are </em> family, after all.”</p><p>“And we’re about to witness Lucifer in all his glory, right?" Asmodeus warbles. "I mean, it’s not like anyone had to twist my arm to get me to come out and see this; I would’ve come either way!”</p><p>“And I made sure to set my DVR to record the full Ruri-chan series marathon that’s running today! So if you were worried, don’t be!”</p><p>Barbatos comes to a stop just before his lord, a hand tucked under his chin. “So, you’ve all come along as a moving show of support and brotherly love, then?” He tilts his head, and the serene smile he wears is—chilly, somehow, hiding a knife's edge. “Hmm… but it would appear that one among your number neither qualifies as a relative, nor a demon.”</p><p>You meet his eyes. His face is familiar: the stately weight of his gaze, the contour of his cheek, the soft lines around his mouth and at the corners of his eyes, the way he tilts his head—all so well-known to you that it stings sharply when you realize he isn’t the Barbatos you gifted with tea today. This is the Demon Lord’s steward, wholly and completely. </p><p>And he’s <em> baiting </em> your companions, with—you note the amused turn of the prince’s mouth—his lord’s full approval. </p><p>“That’s right.” Beelzebub reaches an arm around your shoulders, and Barbatos’ brow arches just slightly. “Ambrose isn’t a demon, nor are we related… but that doesn’t mean we can’t be on the same side.”</p><p>You swallow past the nerves bundling your throat. “Ties are made by more than just blood or species... I couldn’t call myself a friend if I didn’t support them now.” </p><p>Diavolo hums. “I see!” His golden eyes glitter. “Well, Ambrose, you may be a human, but it would seem you’ve found a home for yourself here in the Devildom; I have to say, I find that comforting.” He turns to find a high-backed chair that you’re quite sure hadn’t been behind him before, and languidly takes a seat. “Now, then, Lucifer, how about we hear what you have to say.”</p><p>Lucifer, already ramrod straight, folds his hands behind his back. “Diavolo, never before have I opposed you in any matter until now.” With a slow, deep breath, he steps forward. “Give me back my brother… give me back Belphegor.”</p><p>The prince’s brow draws tight in a serious line. He folds his hands over his lap. For a moment, neither moves; ruby eyes bore into gold. The metallic gaze is sharp, but unmoved.  </p><p>And then, jaw tight, eyes squeezed shut, Lucifer drops to one knee.</p><p>No one makes a sound in the wake of several startled breaths.</p><p>“Please.”</p><p>Lord Diavolo looks at Lucifer where he still kneels. He frowns. Stands. Turns his face away. </p><p>“Rise, Lucifer. I—do not wish to see you like this.” Stiffly, the eldest obeys, and Diavolo continues, pressing a hand along his jaw, across his chin. “...truth be told, I knew.” He sighs. “I knew you were hiding Belphegor, and I knew why. Your loyalty to me forced you to deceive your brothers, and I knew that was a source of guilt. I saw how you struggled with it, how hard it was being pulled in two directions and once. And…” He finally looks at Lucifer again, the remorseful crease of his brow conflicting with the hard line of his mouth. “...it made me sad.”</p><p>Lucifer opens his mouth, but nothing comes out.</p><p>“Well if that’s true…!” Beel growls. “If that’s true, then give us back Belphegor! That would solve everything, wouldn’t it?”</p><p>But the prince slowly shakes his head. “The Devildom, the Celestial Realm, and the human world—the balance between our three worlds is a delicate and fragile thing. In order to maintain this balance, we must have rules. Belphegor sought to violate those rules, and that is something I cannot overlook.”</p><p>“But—” You purse your lips. “He never carried out the threats he made to the human world. Can’t Belphegor be charged with a lesser crime?”</p><p>He folds his arms tightly across his chest. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple.”</p><p>“Have you already forgotten that Belphegor <em> did </em> carry out one of his threats?” Barbatos’ voice remains smooth and calm, but there’s a deep crease between his brows. </p><p>Diavolo nods. “He tried to dismantle the exchange program by having you killed. And let’s not forget, Lucifer, that he <em> is </em> your brother, and that this was done while he was in <em> your </em> care. I cannot afford to give special treatment.” </p><p>“And yet, I am here when I should be in the dungeon.” Lucifer’s eyes glitter, like fresh blood in the sun. “You’re already giving me preferential treatment, Diavolo, by allowing me to walk free when my decision to protect Belphegor is what endangered Ambrose’s life and the success of the exchange program. He is <em> my </em>responsibility, and I should be serving his punishment.” </p><p>“Lucifer, you can’t—”</p><p>“Now wait a minute—”</p><p>“You’re not—!”</p><p>“Lucifer…”</p><p>“Hang on—”</p><p>The eldest raises a hand, and his brothers fall silent. </p><p>“Tch—” The prince’s teeth bare in a sharp grimace, four large, sharp incisors on full display. He turns his face away. “Is that how you would have it?”</p><p>“Yes.” </p><p>Your mind is buzzing, blood racing, breakneck, through your veins. This <em> can’t </em> happen, it <em> won’t </em> happen, you can’t let it—</p><p>A shadow falls over Lucifer’s brow. “If you want your justice served, then let’s <em> have it done</em>.”</p><p>“<b>Stop!</b>”</p><p>There’s a sharp breath that belongs to Barbatos, his mouth twisted in an unreadable curve.</p><p>“This is wrong, <em> you’re wrong</em>, you’re <em> both </em> wrong!” There’s a tremble in your fingers, but you clench your fists against it. “<em>I’m </em> the human world’s representative here.” </p><p>“Oh?” Lord Diavolo rolls his broad shoulders, fixes you under his golden gaze. “Are you saying that you don’t think I have the right to do as I see fit in this case? That as a representative of the human world, you should have a say in the affairs of demons?” He takes three steps forward, and even Beel falls half a step back as the prince leans down to look into your face. “As I recall, you were given the opportunity before, and gave up your right; such responsibility can’t be taken up and discarded again when convenient. You were eager to stay out of our affairs before, even when it directly affected you. But <em> now </em> you’ve changed your mind?” </p><p>Your jaw tightens. “Before, Lord Diavolo, I feared my judgement would be inadequate because I did not understand your customs, not because I’m afraid of <em> responsibility</em>.” You don’t look away, don’t retreat. “I understand now that I must bring my own customs to the table, that I am here <em> because </em>I am not of this realm. My duty now is to represent the world I live in as best I can... and I say that while you can do as you see fit with your own laws, Lord Diavolo, the question now is of Belphegor’s threat to the human world, and to myself—and I deserve to be heard.” </p><p>Lucifer’s voice is low, urgent: “Ambrose—”</p><p>“No, Lucifer… it’s fine.” The prince shakes his head, a slow smile spreading across his mouth. “All right. I see what you’re saying, Ambrose, and there is some logic to it.” He nods, once. “So, I’m going to assign you a special task, and if you can manage to complete it all by yourself, I’ll let Belphegor—and Lucifer—go free.”</p><p>You don’t have to think twice. “I accept.”</p><p>Lord Diavolo’s smile broadens into a grin that smacks of mischief. “Yes, I thought you’d say that.”</p><p>“Diavolo.” Lucifer narrows his eyes. “What exactly is this <em> task </em> you’re assigning?”</p><p>“Oh, yes—allow me to explain.” He steeples his fingers. “There’s one thing about the events of the last few hours that has been bothering me, you see, something that needs clarification, and I want Ambrose to provide it.”</p><p>Lucifer arches a brow. “What would that be?”</p><p>“You were hiding Belphegor in the attic room, which you had sealed using very powerful magic. That door could only be opened through the combined power of six members of your family, excluding Belphegor, correct?”</p><p>“Yes, that’s right.”</p><p>“Ambrose hasn’t made a pact with you, Lucifer—yet the door still opened.” Diavolo spreads his hands. “Using Barbatos’ powers, I want Ambrose to travel back into the past and ascertain exactly who it was that rescued Belphegor.” </p><p>You almost miss his next words over the sudden rush in your ears. ‘Back into the past’ as in <em> time-travel? </em>You couldn’t have heard that properly.</p><p>“It’s possible that some third party is involved in all of this without any of us knowing about it.” Lord Diavolo pauses, looking from you, to Lucifer, and back again. “I want to know exactly what happened.”</p><p>“My lord—”</p><p>“It will be done, Barbatos.” The prince cuts a sharp glance over his shoulder, and his steward falls immediately silent, gaze fixed on the floor. </p><p>Your throat catches tightly, though you don’t know why. Still, you nod. “ Yes; I’ll do it.”</p><p>“Huh? Aren’t you at least gonna <em> think </em> about it first?”</p><p>“Rich, coming from you, Mammon,” says Satan, dryly, “but he’s right.”</p><p>Leviathan wrings his hands. “You’re going to do this by yourself? Are you sure that’s a good idea?</p><p>“Whoa, wait a second—” Mammon nudges Lucifer’s shoulder. “—we can’t let Ambrose do something like this <em> alone!” </em></p><p>The eldest nods, slowly. “Someone should be there just in case.” He looks to Diavolo. “What if one of us went along—it could be anyone. Perhaps Barbatos—”</p><p>“Ambrose is to go alone.” His eyes flash, molten gold. “Those are my conditions.”</p><p>“Diavolo…!”</p><p>“Lucifer, it’s okay.” You catch his sleeve between your fingers with a sharp tug, and do your best to smile when he meets your eyes. “This is <em> my </em> duty.”</p><p>“Ambrose, I…” He swallows, glances slightly away. “...thank you. I’m sorry for getting you caught up in all of this. But it seems you’re the only one who can help Belphie—who can help <em> us </em>—now. Please, come through for him.”</p><hr/><p>Barbatos bowed without meeting your eyes before starting off though a nearby corridor, leaving you to chase his brisk pace. The passage is one you recognize, a path that descends gradually down to a chiseled stairwell and the lower levels of the castle; you had traced these steps just today—or, rather, yesterday—to reach the massive kitchens. Only that afternoon, you and he had walked on either side of Luke as the boy went on about the pie he wanted to try, the baking techniques he’d learned in the Celestial Realm, the new ones Barbatos had been showing him. </p><p>Your shoulders sag. Was that truly a few short hours ago? Have you really been awake all night? Though your mind hums, bolstered by the second wind you’d gained from all the adrenaline of the previous conversation, there is a weariness in your body, like sand dragging at your limbs. </p><p>Barbatos’ hands are folded tightly behind his back as he leads you down the tiled corridor, past tapestries depicting the Devildom’s history, through Baroque-styled arches. You try to gather up the courage to say something, anything. </p><p>“I’ve been serving Lord Diavolo for a very long time.” He looks at the floor, quiet, and you double your pace to try to hear him better. “Much longer than you might think, but I must say, I never imagined the day would come when I would actually show a human to my room.” </p><p>Your brain stops working entirely. </p><p>His hands, at the small of his back, unfurl and lace themselves together again in a tighter arrangement. “And that it should be you…” Barbatos’ eyes gleam in the golden light of the corridor as he glances over his shoulder. “These are not the circumstances I would have preferred.” He purses his lips, and returns his attention to the path ahead. </p><p>“Your… room?” Your brow furrows. “I thought I was going to the past.” </p><p>He stops at the top of a worn, granite stairwell that looks down into a vast chamber encircled with pillars, lit by the whitish glow of gas lamps. “I forget that you are not entirely aware of my powers.” He turns to face you completely, grave. “You’re about to go back into the past, yes—but in order to do that, we must first go to my room.” Barbatos takes a long, slow breath. “I have the ability to see into both the past and the future… and I can send people to either one by using one of the countless doors in my room.” </p><p>Perhaps you’re not all that awake after all. You’re feeling light-headed. </p><p>You pass a hand through your hair. “You… didn’t see this happening?” The implications are…</p><p>“Lord Diavolo forbids me from making free use of my power.” His brow creases, earnest. “If you’re wondering why I didn’t prevent all of this from happening in the beginning... the simple answer is that I couldn’t.” He turns and starts down the steps, leaving you to follow. It is silent, save for your heels on the granite, as Barbatos frowns into space. Then—”Imagine, for a moment, what it would be like to know everything that will happen to you today, tomorrow, each day of the rest of your life. Imagine being able to know everything that ever was, and ever shall be.” At the bottom, in the middle of the chamber, he turns to you, fixes you in an urgent, veridian stare. “Imagine seeing every possible act, every potential consequence. Would it not bore you, <em> knowing? </em> Or would it only tempt you to arrange every outcome to best suit yourself above all? Would you fall into despair, or would you simply be consumed by your need for perfection?”</p><p>Your heart hammers against your chest. The pieces are coming together, fitting one against another to form a complete image—the cicadas, the tea of memories, the time-bending trees, the self-loathing and <em> regret </em>surrounding the trial… </p><p>“I…” There’s a lump in your throat. “I imagine it would be very lonely. Always on the outside and the inside…” Your brow creases, sharply. “...but never quite feeling like you’re any place at all.” </p><p>If one were to know everything that may be, how could anything feel real?</p><p>Something stirs in Barbatos’ gaze, like the waver of candlelight, but he closes his eyes. “We must continue.” Without a second glance, he strides to the edge of the room; the floor is a circular, suspended platform, surrounded on all sides by a straight drop into the darkened chambers below. The hall he approaches opposite the entrance appears to have no stairwell leading to it; the empty archway sits suspended within the stone wall on the other side of the pit. But then, Barbatos waves a hand, and the low, resonating hum of magic saturates the air. Over the moat, there appears a slender set of iron steps, bridging the gap. </p><p>And there is no handrail.</p><p>He inclines his head, and gestures with an open palm to the path. “I will be right behind you.”</p><p>You nod, and take a deep breath before setting foot on the first, dainty stair. Your stomach does a backflip as you catch sight of the abyss below, ionic columns of dark stone disappearing into a shadowy void. </p><p>“Keep your eyes on the hall,” Barbatos says, quietly.</p><p>Draw a slow, deep breath, and lift your eyes from the chasm. The hall is lit with wall sconces much older than the gas lamps of the previous chamber; these create flickering, golden patterns upon the stone walls. One step at a time. Ahead, the hallway seems to go on and on until you can’t discern the dancing flames anymore as they shrink into little more than winking stars and disappear altogether. Six, seven, eight…</p><p>There are thirteen steps in total. Of course there are. </p><p>But you’re glad to be back on a solid floor with walls on either side. You stop in the hall, and wait for Barbatos to retake the lead, wondering how much further it will be to your destination, stomach twisting. </p><p>As it turns out, Barbatos’ room is hardly a distance down the corridor at all; after only a moment, he stops before a large, wooden door bound with iron. Each bracket is etched with runes, gleaming in the low light, and the door-latch, forged entirely from silver, seems to glow from within. </p><p>Efficiently, the steward strips off his glove, claps the handle, lifts the latch. The tingle of magic leaves a slightly metallic taste in your mouth, but it dissipates as soon as the door swings open. </p><p>If you thought you’d been thrown for a loop before with this time travel business, that’s nothing compared to <em> seeing </em>the means by which it is possible. </p><p>The room is an Escher nightmare. </p><p>And yet—there’s something rather compelling about it. The floor you stand upon now is worn, polished wood, but not far from the door it transitions to granite. There are cut stone steps, spiral staircases, ancient-looking archways, tree roots and vines curling between the stone blocks that make up the walls. Ahead, there is a massive window marked by doric columns, open to a strange, blue-grey sky bedecked with clouds. Over the edge of the platform upon which you stand, you can see the uppermost branches of a birch tree.</p><p>“Welcome to my room, Ambrose.” </p><p>Only one thought comes to mind: “How do you <em> sleep </em> in here?”</p><p>For the first time since your arrival, Barbatos’ eyes crinkle in proper amusement. “I don’t. This is my room, yes, but not my bedroom.” </p><p>“Oh.” You look up at the ceiling and blink several times as your eyes try very hard to arrange the pattern of stairs and floor and doors upside-down and up and backward into something that makes sense. “That’s good. I think you’d wake up with a headache if you tried.” </p><p>“Perhaps.” He wrings his glove between his hands. “But now, I must explain several points about travelling to the past—things you must be cautious of.” He stands a little straighter, reminiscent of the lectorial stance he took during this afternoon’s history discussion. “First, you must not reveal that you are from the future to anyone you meet in the past; if you were to do so, you run the risk of warping history. For the very same reason, it would not be good at all if you were to meet your past self... It would probably be best if you didn’t make contact with anyone whatsoever.” You nod. This was expected, if anything about suddenly being commanded to travel in time could be said to be predictable. “If you can, ascertain who set Belphegor free and then come directly back, without speaking to anyone along the way.”</p><p>That should be simple enough, considering the evening’s events; no one should be wandering the halls aside from you and Lucifer... you hope. </p><p>“And the most important part—when you wish to return to this world, this time, all you have to do is knock on the door you used to get to the past and then proceed through it. The same door will then bring you back here.”</p><p>“No magic necessary?” you ask.</p><p>He nods. “None on your part.” The now-wrinkled glove is passed from one hand to the other, then tucked into his pocket. “Come.” </p><p>Barbatos leads you up a short flight of steps nearby, one that, fortunately, appears to function quite normally. He ducks beneath another flight, and you follow close behind, making three sharp turns until—</p><p>You’re quite sure the room wasn’t this direction before. Looking up, you see the birch tree hanging upside-down. </p><p>Vertigo hits like the tide, and Barbatos catches your wrist. “Focus on the door,” he says, quietly. </p><p>The door you had not had the time to notice is especially imposing—intricately carved with twisting serpents and vines that writhe across its surface, crawling through runes you don’t recognize. You swallow, hard, and take one deep breath, then another. Like the door to this room, the handle is a gleaming silver, decorated with delicate filigree. This is why he left the glove off, you suspect… some property of the metal, of the magic he uses to open these doors.</p><p>Barbatos is very close to your side now, and it seems he has not removed his gaze from your face, nor the fingers wrapped around the sleeve of your coat. “Is there anything else that you would like to ask?” </p><p>His eyes are dark, like evergreens through an autumn mist. </p><p>“No, but… I’m afraid I’ll make things worse,” you confess.</p><p>“All anyone can ask is that you do your best.” Barbatos smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Good luck.” It has none of the serene charm that it should. </p><p>“Can you come with me?” Repress the urge to clap your hands over your mouth. You hadn’t meant to say it, but you’re here now. “Please.” </p><p>The steward releases your wrist, presses his hand over his abdomen as he straightens into perfect posture. He avoids your eyes. “To do so would go against Lord Diavolo’s orders.” </p><p>It isn’t <em> this task is yours alone</em>, it isn’t <em> I don’t want to</em>, it isn’t even an outright <em> no</em>, <em> I won’t</em>.</p><p>It’s an <em> I can’t</em>. </p><p>Your throat is heavy, heart clenching painfully. “Yes... I think Lord Diavolo did say that I have to complete the task alone.” You look at the door again, and it raises the hair on your arms, so you try tracing the uneven pattern of the stone beneath your feet instead. “I apologize.”</p><p>But there’s a gentle hand under your chin, coaxing your gaze back to his face. His fingers on your skin are cool, his touch delicate, like you’re one of the many immaculate teacups he has served during your time with him. “You haven’t slept, have you?” </p><p>You consider lying so that you don’t have to see the slight, worried pinch of his brow, but you can’t bring yourself to do it. “No.” </p><p>Slowly, he nods, a faint crinkle at the edge of his eyes. “I can do one, small thing for you.” Lightly, his fingers trace the edge of your jaw, and your blood quickens; the pleasantly cold pads of his fingers linger at your temple, and a buzzing, warm energy sinks into your skin, dissipates the faint ache in your skull, refreshes senses and attention you hadn’t realized were flagging. </p><p>The brothers have each done this for you before at one time or another, usually during a late-night study session or upon waking in the morning after an unsatisfying sleep to help you through the early classes... just a little boost of energy that, while not a replacement for proper rest, gives you the extra time you need. But never before has your face been hot from your cheeks to the tips of your ears at such simple contact. </p><p>Barbatos rests his palm along your jaw, a cool, sharp contrast to flushed skin. There is a crease at the edge of his mouth, his gaze heavy, oversaturated, like fragments of reflection on the surface of a lake painted in impressionist fashion, flowing on and on forever, and you think—</p><p>His hand falls away from your face, but before you can be disappointed he takes up your hand, thumb pressed tight across your fingers. “You must come back, my friend.” You want to ask what he means, but Barbatos’ lips are pressed to your knuckles, soft, urgent, and he doesn’t lift his head to continue, the words whispering along your skin: “You must come back through the door, to me.” </p><p>Your fingers pull his hand tighter to yours. You don’t trust your voice at all. </p><p>Barbatos is… <em> afraid? </em></p><p>But when he straightens, though his hand remains wrapped firmly around your own, his face is perfectly placid, distant and neutral. “Now… off to the past with you.” Gently, he extracts his fingers, and catches your eyes one last time. “Knock three times to return when your task is complete.” </p><p>Slowly, you nod, heart in your throat. “Three times to return.”</p><p>If Barbatos is afraid… well, you’d ask Heaven to help you, but you’re not entirely sure who you should be praying to now.</p><hr/><p><em>“So </em> this <em> is how you get everything done.” You stand at the marbled rail, resting your elbows on its burnished edge, watching the garden below. </em></p><p>
  <em> Nothing seems to move at all. Since you drank from the cup, tasted of the malty-sweet tea, Lucifer and Diavolo have barely moved a single, careful step along the winding path.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Sometimes,” Barbatos concedes. His elbow just barely brushes yours from where he gazes alongside you, and the air is still. It is quiet, but for a soft, resonating hum almost below hearing.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “What’s that sound?” you ask, idly. It’s strange how freeing it is to know that you don’t have to go anywhere at all for a good while yet; there’s nothing to look forward to right now, just standing like this... no counting down of minutes, no dread that you’ll soon have to leave your current company. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “The first note of everything about to be played.” Barbatos seems to feel it, too, eyes closed, leaning heavily upon the balcony. “It’s the first stir of a breeze, the edge of a cicada’s song, the next word of a murmured conversation.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> A smile softens your cheeks. “I didn’t realize you were a poet.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He chuckles, but doesn’t open his eyes. “Not a poet, my friend.” You wonder, sometimes, if he says it because he likes the way it sounds, if it’s as much a novelty to him as it was to Diavolo. “Only old enough to have developed a bit of whimsy.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Whimsy isn’t the first word I’d associate with you, either—” Slide half a step to the side, just a little closer, so that your arm presses snugly against his. “—my friend.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> If the air weren’t so still with its slow-moving sounds, you don’t think you could have heard the breath catch, sticky, in his throat. “Then, perhaps, it’s because I have been spending entirely too much time around you.” But the soft, bright smile that creases his mouth is something you could never have missed.  </em>
</p><p>The memory is several days old, and it lingers in the forefront of your mind as you lose your footing and slide to the floor. You… <em> believe </em> it was only memory, at least, maybe induced by the magic you were just subjected to; it had washed over you like a wave when you stepped through the door, electric, cloying, sticky and heady as humidity. And now…</p><p>Now you’re kneeling in your room at the House of Lamentation. </p><p>It seems the door you’ve stumbled from is the entrance to your little, ensuite bathroom. While it’s a relief to be in a private space, your room is a good distance from the attic… you’ll have to make it up two flights of stairs without being seen. With any luck, past-you and Lucifer won’t be wandering around anymore.</p><p>You pull your DDD out of your pocket to check the time—11:33pm. Somewhere around eight hours in the past. Yes… if you and Lucifer haven’t retired to the library already, you will very soon. You’ll have to hurry. </p><p>With a deep breath, you push yourself from the floor, and cautiously peep into the hallway, holding your breath, straining your ears for any sound. Nothing at all, not from here. Best to take advantage of the opportunity. </p><p>As swiftly and silently as possible, you make your way up one of the side stairwells, through the winding halls, creeping past the brothers’ bedroom doors, until—</p><p>“‘...to Achieving the True Ending. Fall in love with the boss, Lucifer. Sweet, sweet love. Make him your love slave, and you’re set!’” </p><p><em> Ugh </em>, that’s just as embarrassing and uncomfortable to hear as the first time.</p><p>“<em>What the hell? </em>” Lucifer grumbles, and you can hear… yourself? (Do you really sound like that?) murmuring in agreement. “Whatever. Let’s get out of here.” </p><p>Your stomach drops all the way down to the catacombs. <em> Shit</em>. You don’t have time to run, there’s nothing nearby to conceal yourself, and—</p><p>Your eyes catch sight of a faint change in the stonework of the wall just ahead, a pattern that almost looks like... Of course! Runes. The riddle is written in the Celestial language, incomprehensible, but you still remember the password—</p><p>“<em>Lilith.</em>” </p><p>You dart inside, the hidden door sliding back into place without a sound.</p><p>
  <em> It’s still the same room, but the air is suffused with silvery light. It brightens the furniture, the marble fireplace, the bedspread, every bauble and trinket with a celestial glow. And this… this memory isn’t yours, but you swear you could reach out and touch it.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>The door swings open and before you can fear that all your effort has gone to waste— </em>
</p><p>
  <em> It’s an angel, standing there, a bright smile on his face. His hair is dark like the evening sky, bangs hanging messily over his forehead, the rest tied loosely at the nape of his neck. He wears blue and white and gold in flowing garments not unlike Simeon’s, and you don’t recognize him, not until he speaks. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’ve been looking everywhere for you…” His eyes are still the very same gleaming shade of opalescent indigo as Beelzebub’s, but now they’re glittering with tears. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You don’t have to ask; there’s a heavy dread sitting in the pit of your stomach, and it’s your brother’s; you know it well, the desire for comfort, reaching out for you, desperately searching. You take his hand before it even moves from his side. “I thought we were playing hide and seek?” your mouth says without command. The voice isn’t yours at all. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I know, but…” He squeezes your fingers, looks away. “I couldn’t find you for a while and… I don’t know.” Belphegor frowns at the floor. “I think that’s enough hide and seek for now, Lilith.” He tries to force a smile to his face. “What do you want to do next?”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> But you know exactly what he wants; you don’t miss a beat. “Could we go look at the stars?”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He chuckles, a sound so sweet that it pains your heart. “You mean sneak into Uriel’s planetarium again?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Uriel said I can come back whenever I want!” you pout, but your plan worked; there’s a warmth rising in your chest as Belphegor’s anxiety fades.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “If you say so...” He reaches out to gently ruffle your hair. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> A grin breaks across your features. “Do you want to bring Beel?” Not that you need to ask.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Of course we should bring Beel.” Belphie’s eyes glitter. “Come on—before Lucifer realizes we’re gone.” </em>
</p><p>When you push through the door to follow Belphegor, the hallway is empty, and everything is as you left it. Release a slow, steady breath, and shake out your hands. Barabtos hadn’t mentioned any side-effects of time-travel, but… you can’t think of any other explanation for what happened here and on your initial excursion. Hopefully, this doesn’t happen again—or if it does, you it won’t happen at an inopportune moment… you’ve been incredibly lucky so far.</p><p>You waste no time in creeping through the remaining halls to the winding, attic stairwell. Close your eyes, listen there at the bottom for any evidence of the foul play Diavolo suggested... </p><p>But there’s not a sound. </p><p>With a deep breath, you place your foot on the first iron step.</p><p>
  <em> The crescent-moon welts fade from your skin under Barbatos’ careful gaze. He wipes a silken cloth across your skin, smoothing a cool, lightly tingling salve over every mark. The sitting room you find yourself in is one that you had never seen before, lit with oil lamps and sparsely furnished, somewhat Georgian in nature. Several of the dark, panelled walls are painted with sweeping, alien landscapes, and above the mantle hangs a portrait of three demons, their faces shrouded in curling smoke and shadow; only their hands are in complete focus, as though lit by a nearby fire. One graceful set of fingers uses a drop spindle with fine, golden thread. The next pair of hands cradles an hourglass between slender palms, the silver sand inside running upward in defiance of gravity. The final figure pricks its own finger on a bronze blade, and a fine rivulet of inky, burgundy ichor runs along the gleaming edge. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> A fire flickers in the stone hearth below, and you’re sitting on a loveseat with a scrolling, wooden back, upholstered in a crawling pattern of deep purple foliage, accented with emerald and cream and black. Barbatos kneels on a plush carpet at your feet, framed by the dancing flames and shadows from the fireplace.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Your heart flutters in your chest with each sweep of the cloth, every gentle ministration.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “May I ask…” he says, quietly, without removing his attention from his task. “What is it like in your home?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You knit your brows together, just a little. “It’s… nothing like it is here. And yet, almost the same.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> His eyes flick briefly to yours before settling themselves back on his task. “You do not have to answer unless you wish; I am curious as to how you became so…” There’s slight tension at the corner of his eyes, the sharp draw of his lips, and he turns your hands over gently to examine your palms. “Patient.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The tips of your ears feel warm again, and it’s nothing to do with the rolling heat of the fire. He has done nothing but compliment you this evening, for doing things you believe aren’t particularly extraordinary... but you try not to think about the trial, about the circumstances, only the words. Forgiving, he’d said. Generous. Patient.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You’re just doing what you hope anyone would—and not particularly well, at that. Many mistakes… you’ve made many. But they’re past, and you can do nothing for them now, so you exhale, slowly, and focus on the way the shadows dance behind your eyelids, on the careful caress of salve and silk.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I love my family,” you say, and, opening your eyes, you can tell it’s not what Barbatos expected to hear, but he does not speak, head tilted slightly in encouragement. “I love them more than anything, and they taught me as much or more about what it means to be… human, and to feel, and to try, as reading has done, as art of all kinds has. When I was young, life at home was stable—not perfect, but calm and full of variety.” You glance over his shoulder, into flames that flicker red and orange and white. “But… things changed, as they do, some time ago. And since then, it seems they don’t change at all.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You know that it’s vague. It’s cryptic. And there’s a part of you that thinks you should feel satisfied in knowing that Barbatos doesn’t quite understand what you’ve said, but you’re stuck in your own loop of thoughts now, breath uneven.  </em>
</p><p><em> “I do everything I can, but it’s never enough. They always have the same old arguments, the same issues, forever in a cycle that no one breaks.” You swallow. “I… I know how people feel, you know? It’s easy for me, because I know my family, I know why they fight the way they do and… I try to hold it together but I just keep watching everything deteriorate in my hands. I can tell them. I can tell them </em> why <em> they’re acting like that, I tell them that they </em> can <em> change, that no one is being malicious, that they just aren’t listening to each other, that they don’t understand—”  </em></p><p>
  <em> You’re startled when Barbatos’ thumbs, gloved in soft linen, run lightly over your knuckles. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’m—sorry. That’s not what you asked.” Maybe it’s because you’re tired. You wouldn’t normally just… spill everything like this. It’s well after midnight. Maybe you should have just gone back to the House of Lamentation to rest— </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Continue.” Gently, he squeezes your fingers, his gaze reserved, calm. Placid waters reflecting the verdance of a willow tree, refracting the image of grasses and a hazy, grey-green sky. You can feel a slow, measured breath enter your lungs, a tranquility flowing into your veins.  </em>
</p><p><em> “They don’t understand.” You’re speaking again, as bidden, before you even realize it. “It doesn’t matter how much I change myself, what I try to fix. Everything happens as it happens and I deal with it as it comes.” A wry smile twists your lips. “It’s funny—a house full of </em> demons <em> listens to me more than my own family does. I feel like—” Your throat seizes, and your chest aches.  </em></p><p>
  <em> Barbatos squeezes your hands again, and asks, quietly, “May I pour you some tea?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Yes, please.” This time, you avoid his eyes. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> His touch lingers as you replace your hands in your lap, and he rises, moving to the cart and tea service he’d set up at the end of the loveseat. Quickly, efficiently, he pours, and you hardly have time to admire the grace of his form, the scent of the tea, floral and light as it reaches the air, before he’s on one knee, offering the cup and saucer. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “An herbal blend of exceptionally rare tea made in the Celestial Realm, from my personal collection.” Before you can even open your mouth to reply, trying not to let your fingers tremble as you accept the cup, he continues: “It should help you rest after such an eventful evening… the flavor is bright with a subtle sweetness, and an aromatic finish. You will sleep well.” He offers a small, gentle smile. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Thank you.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> He inclines his head, stands, and moves back to the cart to pour a second cup. You let the scent of the tea tickle your nose, let the weight of the cup and saucer rest in your hands for a moment; this set is inlaid with a purplish stone, perhaps amethyst, in a way you had no idea was possible. Barbatos, tea in hand, pauses before the hearth, glancing between where you sit and the armchair nearby with its strange, almost decorative spade-shaped gap between the cushion and winged back.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Then, lightly, gracefully, he takes the seat beside you.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Something warm stirs in your chest. You drink.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> For a while, the only sound is the soft hiss of the fire, the careful click of your cup on its saucer at intervals. Barbatos was right—the tea has a gentle sweetness, and a flavor that can only be described as bright, like sunshine through crystal, and already, you can feel a kind of peace settling over your body.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> You wet your lips, and look deeply into the golden tea. “I feel very guilty sometimes.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Out of the corner of your eye, you can see Barbatos’ cup return to its saucer. When you don’t speak again, he asks—”Why?” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Swallow, hard. “I’m very happy here.”  </em>
</p><p><em> You can feel the sharp tang of surprise and don’t have to look to know Barbatos’ brows are slightly arched, so you continue. “I’m grateful that you all arranged things so that I wouldn’t be missed so sorely, that things seem normal to them… It eases my mind, though sometimes I still worry about them, how they’re coping without me; they’ve never been without me for more than a week. I worry, yes, but...” Your brow creases, and you can’t decide whether your self-deprecation wants to be delivered with a smile or a sneer: “But mostly, I feel </em> relief <em> .” You glance at Barbatos to find him watching, calm, without judgement. “And why wouldn’t I? I… things </em> change <em> here. I feel like I—I feel like, sometimes, I actually make a difference. Just a little. Even if it’s just… just getting Levi outside or taking Lucifer a cup of coffee to see the surprise on his face. I’m neglecting my duties to my family, and yet—” There are tears ready behind your eyes, cloying your throat. “I’m </em> happy <em> .”   </em></p><p>
  <em> With a trembling breath, you down the rest of the tea, closing your eyes, breathing slowly through your nose, letting the sweet warmth pour through your chest. “I don’t think about it,” you whisper, hoarse. “I just want to be happy right now, while I’m here. That’s selfish, I suppose, but I won’t—I won’t ever be able to live like this again, once it’s over.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em>  When you open your eyes, head still tilted toward the dark beams of the ceiling, you think you’ve conquered the tears enough to sit up normally—but when you do, there’s an emerald, linen handkerchief offered between gloved fingers. The fire warms fresh tear-tracks upon your cheeks. You sniffle, without looking at him, and accept it, wiping quickly and efficiently at your face. “Thank you.” Your voice is as damp as your eyes.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I am at your service.” Barbatos is quiet for a moment, and you finally sneak a glance to find him staring distantly into the flames, shadows flickering over the planes of his face. When he turns his gaze back to you, you can’t look away, a softness settling in your heart. “I do not flatter myself to think the opinion of a demon matters in this case, but I consider any selfishness you might display negligible.” He smiles, gently, with his eyes. “You needn’t think on it now, Ambrose, but you may find that the future is not so simple as you believe. And I hope—” With an instant of hesitation so brief you think you may have imagined it, he tucks a small, stray lock of hair behind your ear, gloved fingertips hardly brushing the skin. “—that you shall continue to be happy here.” </em>
</p><p>The breath comes rushing back into your chest, and you clutch the handrail, head spinning. The night of the trial. That was the night of the trial—immediately after. <em> Why </em> , why is this happening? If you can figure out what’s triggering it, you might be able to avoid any more interruptions. You <em> can’t </em> risk being caught while your mind is dancing up and down a library of memories. </p><p>Close your eyes, pinch the bridge of your nose. Is it doorways, thresholds? The first one was when you entered this timeline, the second when you entered Lilith’s room—and that wasn’t even <em> your </em> memory—this one, ascending the stairs…</p><p>But, if that were the case, you should have had one when leaving your room. It just doesn’t add up… there’s nothing for it but to finish your mission as quickly as possible and go home; you can ask Barbatos when you return. And you <em> will </em> return. </p><p>You can still feel his lips, soft, on your knuckles, and your cheeks warm in kind. Return <em> to me</em>, he said. You hope—</p><p>You ascend the stairs, one careful step at a time, quick, quiet, and efficient.</p><p>No, more than <em> hope</em>, you <em> know </em> what he meant; you’re not so young anymore that you could miss it, that you don’t know your own heart. No, what you hope for is time to talk about it, that perhaps, despite his duties and yours, you might…</p><p>You reach the top. </p><p>Everything is exactly as it has always been on each visit you’ve made here. The thin carpet runner settled over stone, the wall sconces casting flickering shadows across the walls, and the heavy door with its parchment windows—it stands, sealed, humming with magic. </p><p>Pull your DDD from your pocket and check the time again. 11:56. This <em> should </em> be the time. Somewhere just after midnight, Belphegor will appear in the library where Lucifer’s wrath is barely kept in check by his brothers, where things will start spiraling out of control any moment now—</p><p>But there is no one here. The door seems to be locked. There is no sound of someone coming up the stairs behind you. Strange… very, very strange. </p><p>You place your hand on the door, fingers spread, to try to feel the magic better. You’re still not particularly adept at this, but maybe you’ll notice if something has changed—</p><p>A tremendous hum resonates through your bones…</p><p>And the door swings open. </p><p>A chill runs over your skin. <em> You? You </em> are the one who released Belphegor after all this time? How? This is a—a paradox, a—</p><p>“Hmm… Lilith…”</p><p>You freeze.</p><p>But it’s only Belphegor, curled in the middle of a bed stacked high with pillows, mumbling in his sleep. </p><p>“I miss you…”</p><p>There’s a pang in your chest, but you hold your breath, thinking back on what Belphegor had said about his release. Someone had called out to him, but he never saw who it was. You bite your lip. You’d like nothing better than to quietly race back down the stairs and into the safety of your own portion of the timeline now that you have the information you need. But…</p><p>Continuity. </p><p>Take a deep breath, without stepping any closer, and whisper: “Belphegor.” </p><p>Nothing.</p><p>A little louder: “Belphegor.”</p><p>He begins to stir, and you press yourself flat against the wall, creeping toward the stairs as fast as you can. Your work here is done. And a good thing, too… your energy is starting to flag again.</p><p>“I don’t believe it…”</p><p>You hurry, keeping your steps as light as possible.</p><p>“What are <em> you </em>doing here?” </p><p>You freeze. “Er—” You could bolt, but—</p><p>But he wasn’t supposed to see you at all. Your feet feel rooted to the spot, limbs heavy. Slowly, you turn around and look up to face Belphegor, standing at the top of the steps. </p><p>He peers at you through sleep-tousled bangs. “Are you the one who opened the door?”  </p><p>“I’m…” You sigh, dread turning your stomach. “Yes.” What are you going to do now?</p><p>A slow, light chuckle builds in his chest before bursting into proper, sharp laughter. “Amazing…!” He smiles, brightly, and his hands, not knowing what to do, card through his messy hair, tangle in the strands. “This is amazing, Ambrose, <em> yes!” </em> He laughs again, longer this time, and it crawls along your skin, high notes half-hysterical with relief and disbelief. “Oh, Ambrose, you’ve set me free! You’ve released me from this prison! You’ve saved me! There’s no way Lucifer or Lord Diavolo ever imagined THIS would happen—”</p><p>A clamor of shouts echoes up the stairs, familiar, and you know it’s from the library. It’s time. You have to fix this, you have to go—</p><p>“I knew it!” Belphegor seems to calm himself with a deep breath, but the delighted, close-lipped smile stays on his face, crinkling his eyes. “Saved by a <b>human</b>… it really is ironic.”</p><p>The way he pronounces the word sends a deep, terrible tremor through your bones, but you don’t have time to address it. You have to go. You have to leave <em> now </em>. “Belphegor—”</p><p>“All I can really do now is thank you…”</p><p>“Belphegor,” you say again, urgently, casting half a glance behind you, down the stairs. The brothers’ voices are loud, but unintelligible. “You have to go to the library right away; they’re waiting for you.”</p><p>“Wh—” His eyes widen. “You… <em>told</em> <em>them?”</em></p><p>“Not…” You press a hand to your forehead, pinch your temples. It’s getting hard to focus. You <em> have </em>to go. “Not exactly. I’m—I’m not supposed to be here. You can’t tell anyone I was here, please.” </p><p> A wrinkle appears between his brows. “What do you mean?”</p><p>“I can’t explain, but I have to—” You grasp at the thought, but it floats away in a fog. “You have to go to the library. I’ll be there, but don’t say that you saw me. Tell everyone you don’t know how you got out. Please. I—”</p><p>“You look really tired, human… what’s wrong?”</p><p>You swallow, thickly, reach back for the handrail. When you meet Belphegor’s eyes, they’re gleaming, a deep, sugilite violet. “I have to go. Remember what I said… I’m in the library with your brothers, but you can’t tell them—”</p><p>He tilts his head. “You <em> are </em> in the library with my brothers? Right now?”</p><p><em> Shit</em>. You bite your tongue, and it brings a sliver of clarity. “I have to go. You need to get to the library; don’t worry about me.” </p><p>Belphegor nods, slowly, the candlelight casting shadows that make his cheeks hollow, sunken and sallow, his eyes gleaming like the night, like the darkest edge of a dream. “I’ll go to the library, and I won’t tell anybody about you.” </p><p>Your fingers tighten around the iron rail until it cuts into your skin, and you breathe, you breathe. You think you ought to sit down. “Thank you…” Your blood is syrup—your muscles, sand. “I need to—”</p><p>His mouth curls in a smile. “Have a nap?”</p><p>No, no that’s not it. You have to <em> leave</em>. You have to <em> return</em>. Three knocks on the door. It’s three knocks on the door, and—Barbatos. You have to—</p><p>“Close your eyes, human. The world will still be here when you wake up.”</p><p>You’re weightless. A feather sitting on a cloud. </p><p>Dimly, very far away, you think you hear the soft, sweet voice continue: “...you just won’t be part of it.”</p><hr/><p>
  <em> “Hey… wake up. You can do this.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Your eyes won’t open, but you can feel… you can feel a bright, silvery-golden light.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “You can do this.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The voice… you know that voice, but why— </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I know you can find me.” It’s the sort of voice that sings you to sleep, the kind of voice that knows why you’re afraid to close your eyes in the night and promises not to leave.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Lilith?” you ask without speaking. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I knew I chose rightly.” The light is so warm, like sunshine, and the soft pride in her words is the summer breeze. “I’ve been waiting for so long, you see,” she sighs. “I’ve been waiting for you to come find me—the Eighth of the Seven.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “How…?” But that’s not really enough. </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Still, Lilith seems to know exactly what you want to ask; a gentle touch to the crown of your head stops you from trying to formulate anything further. “Following the Celestial War, as you have seen, I was near death… but I lived out my life, happily, as a human, never knowing who I was, what had happened, nor what was missing. But then, after my mortal death—I remembered. I remembered who I was. And since that time, I’ve been watching over my brothers.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> She sighs, a whisper of chimes.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “I’m worried about Belphie, who has lost his way, all alone. About Lucifer, carrying everything as though he is. Beel, unable to let go. Mammon and Asmo pretending there’s nothing wrong. Levi running as far away as he can. Satan—Satan, who still loves me despite the fact that the memories aren’t his. They’re… they’re so full of pain, and I—I have forgotten how to return to the Celestial Realm. I can do nothing, but you…” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> There’s the careful sensation of a thumb tracing over the back of your hand, of fingers squeezing yours.  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Old King Solomon identified that you have no inclination toward magic on your own, but that wasn’t quite true; you know how people feel without asking.” Her breath trembles. “Please, Ambrose... I shall lend my power to yours, the power of memory and empathy. You’ll find it easy to communicate through any door that has been shown to you. Your pacts with my brothers will be like my connection to them when we lived together in the Celestial Realm—knowing without saying, asking without speaking.”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> The hand tightens again around yours. “Please… help them. You’re the only one who can.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> Even without your mouth, the words seem to stick in your throat. “Why me?” </em>
</p><p><em> “Why you? You’re my successor, Ambrose,” A gentle touch brushes the hair from your face. “Because you chose to </em> try<em>.” </em></p><hr/><p>Your first thought is of the dissonance between where you are and where you expected to be. First, you imagined yourself at home, tucked into bed, ready to return to sleep because the room is dark yet, dim and distantly lit. Then, the heavy, ashen scent of the pillows awakens your mind to the fact that you’re still in the Devildom, probably awake just before your alarm, but—you don’t hear any commotion from the kitchen. Finally, you blink your eyes open to find a wholly unfamiliar, orange bedspread.</p><p>Next is the hot, blinding wash of <em> pain</em>. </p><p>Every inch of your body is aflame, and your involuntary flinch against the sensation only sends searing flares along more skin, muscle, and bone that you thought possible. <em> Everything </em> is signaling <b>pain pain pain pain pain pain pain</b>. This is—this isn’t pain, this is <em> agony</em>. There’s nothing else in your mind. Absolutely nothing—only the deep, sharp ache in your chest that fractures along your ribs with each shaking, shallow breath, the steady, fiery thrum in your arms and legs, the bruising, heavy beat in your cheeks and jaw and nose with every throb of your heart. </p><p>Slow your breaths, slow your breaths, squeeze your eyes shut. Slow, shallow breaths. In. Out. Gently, gently—</p><p>There’s a faint tremble in your fingers against the cottony blankets. Take inventory of your body, of… of where you are. This is—you blink, and try not to move your head. You had only glimpsed it briefly, but this is the attic room, the bed in which Belphegor had been curled up, asleep—</p><p><b> <em>Belphegor</em></b>.</p><p>The flicker of wrath burns out almost as soon as it lights the mark around your forearm, the addition of even mild pain eclipsing emotion completely. </p><p>Your throat is tight. His domain is sleep, and you can only assume he helped you along in your slumber, there on the stairs. You walk the memory back… yes, you—you must have fallen asleep standing up and…</p><p>You almost skip your next breath, overcompensate, and hiss as your chest seems to fill with shards of glass that pierce your skin and lacerate your lungs. Slow breaths. Slow. Think about something else. Take inventory. </p><p>Your limbs are twisted into angles that strain each injury further, almost as if you’d been collected at the bottom of the stairwell and… and just tossed here, carelessly, like a rag doll, to—</p><p>To what? The tremor in your fingers beats an uneven rhythm upon the blanket. ...to <em> die? </em> </p><p>And you—</p><p>Your breath freezes in your chest. </p><p><em> No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no</em>—</p><p>What time is it? What time is it? You should be gone, how long has it been, how long? You need—</p><p>You don’t think; you shift your arm, grab for your DDD in the pocket of your coat, its tail fortunately spread like wings at either side of your hips, not trapped beneath the dead weight of your body. When your fingers close around the phone, they protest, they shake; a sharp, stabbing pain races up your forearm, and your hand flinches open. But you can’t, you can’t, you <em> have </em> to, and you grit your teeth, tug—</p><p>Its corner is caught on the inside of the pocket, and tears spring to your eyes. You try again. Gently, you nudge the DDD, but it doesn’t budge. You try more force, and your hand only betrays your efforts, flares like a starfish and refuses to move. Try again. Again, and a tightness starts in your shoulder, the muscles slowly but surely locking into place. </p><p>Your face is wet with tears, and you snarl against the comforter, letting your arm drop back to your side. You sob—but only twice, because the lancing pain that shoots from your chest and clear through your spine is unbearable. </p><p>You hold it in, the frustration, the grief, breaths hissing between your teeth. </p><p>Blink, slowly, and clear the blur from your eyes. Maybe there’s a clock. You wonder if you ought to be moving your head, but… you carefully shift, trying to cause minimal discomfort, eyes scanning the room. There’s an old telescope, a few, colorful sheets draped from the ceiling beams like the awning of a tent, a wooden trunk, and on the wall—</p><p>A miniature grandfather clock. Your heart soars for an instant, but quickly plummets. <em> Seven ten</em>. It must be seven o’clock in the <em> morning</em>, which means—</p><p>Which means, you’ve just gone back in time. You have lain here so long that you returned to the present in the normal way. </p><p>Close your eyes, sigh, and feel more tears well up in your throat. How long until Barbatos realizes something is wrong? Will anyone even think to look for you here? </p><p>You want… you want to go back to sleep. It didn’t hurt while you were sleeping. In fact—</p><p>In fact, it was beautiful. </p><p><em> Lilith</em>. </p><p>Your heart races.</p><p>It couldn’t have been a dream. It was too like the visions you’ve had in the past, the memory you saw in the grimoire, the one you had experienced in the hidden room. If it’s true, if it’s true, you have the power to escape. If it’s true…</p><p>If it’s true, you’re not alone. What had she said about doors? That they can be opened either direction? The pacts… with a shallow, gentle breath, you recall the way Beel’s fear and rage and pain had nearly knocked you off your feet last night. You try to find that thread, reaching for the pact, for—</p><p><em> Warmth</em>. Calm. Gnawing hunger, the delight of a good meal. A low hum, almost too soft to be heard. </p><p>It’s never been so <em> clear </em>before, so sharp…</p><p>Your next breath cuts, and you cough, crying out, trying to smother the involuntary reflex. You cough three more times before it stops, each one sharper, more harsh than the last. Once the white spots of pain are gone from your vision, you squint at the comforter…</p><p>It is now dotted with flecks of blood. </p><p>Well, that… isn’t good. Your heart hammers in your chest, and every injury flares in time. </p><p>Reach for the pact again, and follow the thread. Your head is swimming. You have no idea what to do, so—so you push <em> everything </em> through. Words, images, feeling. Anything. You hope he’ll understand. </p><p><em> Attic</em>, you try. <em> Hurt</em>. <em> Tired. Afraid. White-hot, blinding pain. Blood, stairs, door, Belphegor, Lilith, help, help, help, please, foggy, slow, swimming, pain pain pain, please, tired, so tired, want the pain to stop— </em></p><p>You let your eyes sink closed. But just for a moment; this isn’t it. You can’t die. You haven’t been given <em> leave </em> to die. </p><p>You’ll be damned if you’re going to perish in Hell where your family will never find you.</p><hr/><p>Someone is holding your hand, feverishly hot on your skin. The pain remains, but it’s… far away, almost as though every ache has been covered up and stored below a downy blanket of silvery-white mist. </p><p>Words… a soft phrase reaches your ears, humming low like a song, but your mind won’t decipher it. And then an answer: terse, tense bells, but they won’t sound themselves into syllables, either. </p><p>Fingers tremble against your temple, wiping sticky threads of hair from your face. Blearily, you blink, and it takes a moment to clear your gaze, but you know him even before he swims into focus. </p><p>“Barbatos.” </p><p>His eyes crinkle at the edges, fingers stilling against your forehead. “Yes.”</p><p>Something is… wrong. Well, many things are wrong, but you push aside the ones filtering back into your memory to focus on—</p><p>You wet your lips. “I don’t think I’m breathing.” </p><p>A broken sound that was probably supposed to be a chuckle passes his lips. “You’re still partially in stasis.”</p><p>“How am I speaking without—”</p><p>His smile is strained. “Try not to ponder it.” </p><p>Your brows crease as you study his face. It’s wan, his cheeks much too pale, the color gone from his lips, and his eyes shine feverishly, glazed and glassy, but the irises seem to glow in strange phosphorescence, harkening to unsounded depths, lichen that grows in forgotten places, ancient, dark halls where time stands still, waiting, listening—</p><p>His overheated palm presses gently over your eyes. “Don’t look.” There’s a rough, worn edge to his voice, but there are traces of a smile in it. “You always see more than you should.”</p><p>You want to move your free arm and take his hand—you’ve felt the touch of his skin only once, yet you know it shouldn’t be like this; it should be cool, several degrees below your own—but the limb won’t obey. “Barbatos, what’s wrong?”</p><p>“Keep their eyes covered… and you might want to avert yours, too. I have to take another form.” </p><p>“Simeon?” Even through the darkness, you can see a faint flash of gold, feel Barbatos flinch. He hisses. Panic rises in your chest, and you can’t even squeeze his fingers for reassurance. “Barbatos, are you all right?”</p><p>Slowly, gently, a weight settles on the pillow just above your shoulder; a few silken strands of hair tickle your jaw, tangle with yours. “Yes,” he murmurs, exasperated fondness creeping into his voice.</p><p>You frown. “I don’t believe you.” </p><p>Another half-chuckle, this one more successful. “I am merely performing a complex task… it requires much of the energy I would normally use to converse clearly.” </p><p>“I think you mean converse <em> convincingly</em>.” </p><p>He hums. “Perhaps.” He exhales on a soft hiss that trembles across your skin. “I apologize for worrying you. I… cannot remember when I last stopped time.” </p><p>You blink, not that it matters with his hand over your eyes. “You <em> what?” </em></p><p>“We really should discuss my realm of power when we have the opportunity.” Barbatos’ next breath is unsteady, and he grips your hand a little tighter, your skin slick with sweat. “Lord Diavolo is lending me energy, but… this feat is complex. Simply stopping time would be easier.”</p><p>“What—”</p><p>“Shhhhhh…” There’s a nudge against your shoulder, and—lightly, carefully, he’s nuzzling your neck, just beneath your jaw. “Let Simeon heal you.” Your heart aches with the need to reciprocate that comfort, to run your hand through his hair, anything. He sighs. “I’m manipulating both your flow of time and that of this room separate from the rest.” </p><p>Your head is beginning to hurt. The information feels much more taxing than it should, and now that he’s drawn attention to it, you <em> do </em> recognize a radiating warmth beneath the mist that blankets the pain in your body. Celestial magic, perhaps… it has a bright, golden taste, the distant ring of song. </p><p>“You will be all right,” Barbatos whispers, and the words settle upon your skin.</p><p>Squeeze your eyes shut. “I’m sorry.” <em> I’m sorry I can’t help you. I’m sorry I didn’t make it back. I’m sorry you have to do this. I’m sorry I didn’t return the way I was meant to. </em>But all you manage is: “I’m so sorry.” </p><p>“It isn’t your fault.” A single, hot trickle slides down your neck to settle at the top of your spine, and you know for certain that the gentle, liquid whisper isn’t sweat. His breath fans across your jaw, and, again, your every effort to touch him is in vain. </p><p>“Yet, here you are, cleaning up the mess.” If your voice sounds a little damp, you can’t be blamed.</p><p>A smile. “I would do it a thousand more times.” Your heart aches as his breath grows slower. “Rest, now, nykin.”</p><p>There are more words on the tip of your tongue, but your weary mind obeys before they can be shaped.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p><b>Cynamome</b> - a medieval spelling of cinnamon that refers to a finely ground type of cinnamon from true cinnamon bark, sometimes used as a term of endearment, as seen in Chaucer's <i>Miller's Tale</i></p><p><b>Nykin</b> - an obsolete term of endearment similar to "dear" or "darling" from the 17th century, first appearing in a play by William Congreve; it is unclear what, exactly, the word means or what the compound is, though "kin" was a common suffix to make something seem small or cute. I have, however, adapted a meaning (in context of Devildom culture) to my own end that will be expanded upon and explained in the final section of the fic.</p>
        </blockquote><div class="children module" id="children">
  <b class="heading">Works inspired by this one:</b>
  <ul>
    <li>
        <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29003355">A Small Umbrella in the Rain</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hylla_Tavorian_Aldan/pseuds/Hylla_Tavorian_Aldan">Hylla_Tavorian_Aldan</a>
    </li>
  </ul>
</div></div></div>
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